A Grand Theft
by Shady Sweets McGee
Summary: After one of their crew members is critically injured during a job gone south, two of the biggest San Andreas criminals take to kidnapping an emergency paramedic to keep their friend from the shady police department and the hospitals' prying questionnaires. But will the take-home pay and adrenaline rush be enough to keep her mouth closed or just enough to spark her interest?
1. Trauma

"Carter, you're driving," Melanie demanded, yanking open the heavy back doors of an ambulance then hoisting herself inside. A warmth washed over her, as it did every time she prepared to do the work that she loved. After three years in this spiraling field of work, ambulance number four had almost become a second home to the duo.

"What we got, Cutlass?" her partner pepped. Joseph Carter was a hulk of a man with periwinkle eyes and fluorescent blond hair. Keeping his locks cut close on the sides and a little grown over the top, he mimicked the military grunt he had spent all spring training to become over at Fort Zancudo in west San Andreas. He slammed the driver's door closed behind himself and stuck a key in the ignition. The sturdy engine roared to life. He checked the gears, the lights and the gauges as Melanie situated herself in the back.

"A heart attack just at the end of Grove Street," she stated, immediately rising a slight sigh out of him.

"Damn. I hate it that neighborhood," he complained.

"Yeah, me too, but we signed a contract. Think you can get us there in one piece?" she asked her speed demon of a friend and coworker. Carter buckled his seat-belt and pulled away from the hospital. Melanie let down her long, dark brown hair only to pull it back into its thick bun again, tighter this time.

"Man or woman? Age?" he pressed on before glancing back at his partner in the rear-view mirror then switching on the sirens and giving the howling ambulance more gas. Trucks, cars, and pedestrians wasted no time changing lanes and moving out of their way.

"The guy on the phone said it was his mother. Dispatch couldn't get much more information out of him. He was in hysterics, so we've got to handle that too. I've got no patience to talk a guy away from sending himself into shock," she explained. She planted her steel toe work boots on the metal floor and braced herself against the bench as Carter pulled off a sudden left turn downtown. He tapped the brakes for only a moment as a mid-morning cable car passed along just in front of them.

"I'm timing you as soon as we pull up," he stated, glancing back at her in the rear view mirror.

"Fuck me. Are we really still doing that?" she seemed to whine, despite her caramel cheeks flushing pink with flattery.

"You have the fastest reaction time of all us paramedics in Los Santos. I wanna make sure you don't lose those skills, pipsqueak," he explained, eyes glued to the road. She shook her head, grinning. He was right, but she hated hearing about it. She just loved her job.

"At least someone's looking out for me. Oh! Here it is. Right here. Pull up."

Carter switched off the sirens and left the lights flashing as he carefully pulled alongside the curb just outside of the ragtag cul-de-sac that was Grove Street. A few men clad in purple clothing stood scattered around the neighborhood, their eyes low but observant. Melanie picked up one of the many emergency medical kits and leapt from the back of the EMS vehicle.

"Four Mississippi… Five Mississippi… Six Mississippi…" Carter started up behind her in a hushed tone.

"Shut up," she hissed over her shoulder. In the middle of the sidewalk sat a disheveled man. He lifted his face from his hands and scrambled to his feet.

"Doctors! You gotta help her!" he wailed. He clung on to Carter's sleeve and bat his damp, amber eyes at the duo. Melanie took a step back as an unsettling musk rolled from his frame and encompassed them all. She could feel her lunch disagreeing with the scent.

"Where is she?" she questioned, biting back the urge to cough or cover her mouth. The man appeared shocked after she placed a hand on his shoulder to pull him away from her partner.

"She's in here," another replied. He stood in the doorway of a small, rickety looking home which clashed with the gray and white suit hugging his body. His blue eyes were abnormally void of any emotion. Melanie hesitated as she crossed the sidewalk toward him.

"In here," he insisted. "She was on the floor in the kitchen when I found her. Just lying there and… And clutching her chest. I didn't know what to do."

"You did the right thing by calling us," Carter tried in an effort to comfort the stranger. He sidestepped the two paramedics then beckoned the way inside. Carter stepped past his comrade and marched down the hallway.

"Ma'am? Hello?" he called. Melanie stopped, one foot on the stoop and the other just over the threshold.

"Carter, hold on a minute-"

Three aluminum canisters clattered and clunked around her boots. She drew in a deep breath and tried yanking her shirt over her nose and mouth.

"Melanie, get out!" her partner's voice declared from the other room. As she turned for the exit, someone shoved her from behind and slammed the front door shut. Melanie banged her head on the edge of a wooden side table before her body thudded against the carpeted floor. Her eyesight went blurry and her ears rang. She groaned once and rolled onto her back.

"Fuck!" came Carter's voice. His footsteps frantically meandered this way and that. The canisters blew their lids and a dull green smoke began to billow into the still air around the paramedics. Someone marched by, stepping over her with worn boots. Moments later, Carter's solid body hit the floor beside hers. Dazed from her head injury, Melanie's fingers twitched as her body reacted to the nerve agent filling her burning lungs.

* * *

"Is this the right one?"

"Yeah. Step back, T. She's waking up. Give her some breathing room."

"What happened? Where's… Where's Carter?" the woman groaned. She coughed and the wooden chair beneath her squeaked. Her head lolled on her shoulders. Her eyes burned and her throat itched.

"He's fine. Don't worry about him. You just focus on waking up. Get it together, kid," one of the men insisted. His shadow wavered over her slumped frame as he rose to his feet. The man sitting next to Melanie poked her temple, causing her to wince against her skull's relentless throbbing.

"What happened? Who pushed me?" she grunted. She tried to rub her face, only to find her wrists duct taped to the arms of the chair she sat in. Her pink, tired eyes surveyed the dim room. One man paced back and forth a couple feet away.

"How you doing, Melanie?" the man in the neighboring chair questioned.

"Who're you?" she inquired, shaking her buzzing skull.

"That's not important at the moment. You _are_ Melanie Cutlass, yeah?"

"Who wants to know?" she hissed.

"I do. He does," the pacing man declared, quickly approaching her. "We do!"

She leaned back in the chair, away from his bold features. It was the man who had been cowering on the sidewalk. His eyes were wild and the scar cutting through his left eyebrow shouted for attention.

"Err, where's the woman with the heart attack?" Melanie gasped.

"I put on quite an emotional show, didn't I? I coulda been an actor," the wild one laughed, pushing away from her and pacing again.

"There was no woman. We made all that up. That gas still got you all funky in the head, but when you're ready, we need your help," the man in the seat beside her claimed. She finally looked at him. It was the man in the suit who had been standing on the stoop of the ragtag house on Grove Street.

"Who pushed me?" Melanie asked again.

"Are you sure she's the right one?" the pacing man impatiently asked. The one sitting down scoffed and tugged at the sleeves of his tailored three-piece suit.

"Well you _did_ push her and make her hit her head, T."

"She was taking too long."

"You think she'll be of any help if she's concuss?" he jumped to his feet.

"Clearly she isn't. You've gone way too soft, Mikey. Jesus Christ."

"Shut up, Trevor."

"Hey!"

The two men turned their attention down to the woman they had abducted.

"What the fuck is going on?" she demanded in a serious tone. "Are you going to kill me?"

"Fuck no, sweet pea. We need your help," the one called Trevor stated.

"Why should I help you? You pricks gassed me and my partner. Where is Carter?" she struggled.

"What is with you and this guy? Is he your husband or-"

"I apologize for my…friend's behavior," the other interrupted, raising a hand. "He suffers from psychosis or some other meth-induced shit."

"Ah, bite me."

"And he can be a little hands-on when he's angry," the other revealed. "Carter's safe and sound, just like you'll be if you can pull us a favor."

She stared back and forth between her captors. Trevor let out a growl then marched toward her. She tensed against the chair as he reared back an arm, only to swiftly slide a box cutter through the tape around her wrists.

"T..." the other warned.

"Follow me," he grumbled, waving the blade in front of his face and starting toward a door. She turned to Michael, but he waved her onward in front of him.

"I'd do as told. He's the rational one," he explained. Trevor held the door open for Michael and Melanie to enter the other room.

"'bout time. Is this her?" a new man asked. He lie on his back across a long, wooden table. A medical kit and several other items stolen from the ambulance lie alongside him. Then, she noticed the blood on his shirt. Bright red blotches stained his sleeve and abdomen.

"This is our pal. Can you patch him up?" Trevor asked. She shrugged a shoulder.

"I-I don't know. He could go into shock or lose consciousness or-"

"Can you or can you not?" he pressed, voice growing stern.

"Did they go right through?" she queried, freezing in place at the end of the table.

"Huh?"

"The bullets? You were shot? Are they still inside you?" she simplified.

"The one in my side is. It stings like a bitch," the injured groaned.

"You need to take him to a hospital for surgery," she quickly claimed with a short shake of her head.

"No can do, kid. That's what you're for," Michael claimed. "Pull it out, stitch him up, and we'll all be on our way."

"What you're asking for can't be done. I can't-"

"Can't or won't?" he tried, crossing his arms over his chest. She didn't answer. Without a moment's hesitation, Trevor grabbed the paramedic by the throat and pinned her to the wall. Her breath hitched in her throat as she clutched at his wrist. The box cutter clicked open and the blade glistened against the dim fluorescent lights overhead.

"Are you testing us? Cause if you are - I'll slice open your neck, rip your throat out then eat it for fucking dinner!"

"You won't do anything," she bravely spoke up through clenched teeth, struggling to steady her breathing. His eyes narrowed as he glared down at her, mouth slightly ajar. She uncomfortably wiggled in his grasp and let out a shaky breath. Her nerves were rattled, but she was used to it.

"I know you won't. He needs help. Abducting an ambulatory medic? It must've been a last resort."

The entire room was silent. A growl rumbled from the aggressor's chest and escaped his mouth before he shoved her backward and she caught herself on a dusty counter.

"Y'all got anesthesia or we gonna get straight to work soon? I mean, I'm really feeling it over here," the injured spoke up.

"Gotcha Frank," Trevor grumbled, glancing back at her over his shoulder as he crossed the room then ran the box cutter down the side of Franklin's shirt to expose his wounds. Melanie looked over at Michael, who waved her on. She let out a shaky breath and stepped up to the table. Trevor crossed his arms over his chest and stood opposite her.

"Alcohol?" she dared request. He pulled out a silver flask and offered it over Franklin's body.

"That's not what I meant…" she quietly murmured. Michael snatched away the beverage and slid a bottle of rubbing alcohol across the table.

"This is gonna sting," she warned. With a purse of her lips, she poured alcohol over the holes in his skin. He let out a loud yelp until Trevor's hand came down over his mouth. He was watching Melanie closely. She opened the medical kit and sifted through the compartments. Her heart skipped a beat and she nibbled on her bottom lip.

"What?" Trevor grunted, noting her quiet panic.

"There, uh… There aren't any surgical tongs. I need tongs to pull the bullet out, but I don't...I don't have any. They were in the packs in the front of the ambulance. Did you grab them?"

Both Trevor and Michael shifted uncomfortably. Melanie's stomach fell to the floor.

"Okay... Well, uh, I need you to hold him down. Both of you," she finally ordered, mustering up some sort of courage in her empty gut. Michael approached the table. She turned her back to the three men and washed her hands in the old sink across the room before splashing alcohol over her fingers and palms.

"What're you gonna do?" Michael curiously asked. She returned to the men and withdrew a needle from the medical kit then filled it with alcohol and shot it directly into the wound in his abdomen. If these men wanted it done, she'd give them what they asked for. Trevor looked on in awe.

"Wait, you can't do it like that. You crazy?" Franklin exclaimed.

"You want this done? Keep him quiet and keep him still," she warned. Michael quickly snatched off his tie.

"Man, y'all can't just mmph trmmph…"

He gagged Franklin, tying the piece of cloth about his mouth.

"Sorry sorry sorry…" Melanie quickly whispered before sliding two fingers into the hole the bullet had left behind. Franklin nearly tossed away the two men, but they braced themselves, Trevor leaning over his chest and Michael holding him down at his ankles. Melanie winced and delved deeper into the warm wound. His knees locked and she felt one of his fists tighten around the fabric along the bottom of her white, uniform shirt.

"Keep breathing! I need you to breathe or else you'll go into shock and pass out," she instructed as calm as she could muster. His muffled screams faltered slightly and he viciously sucked in air through his wide nose. Her own heart was doing gymnastics in her chest. She was knuckles-deep in a criminal's abdomen. Despite her profession, even that was a bit much. Finally, her thin middle finger met the bullet lodged in a muscle. He shuddered and lurched, throwing Trevor back a few feet.

"Hold him down!" she ordered again.

"Up and at'em, down and out!" Trevor bellowed taking a swing at Franklin's face with a clenched fist. The man fell flat against the table, head rolling.

"Hey!" Michael worriedly declared.

"He's fine, see?"

Franklin lightly groaned, dazed from the blow, as she managed to slip a finger around the metal. She pressed two fingers of her free left hand against the inside of his wrist to catch his pulse. Blood seeped out his wound and rolled down his brown skin. His heart rate quickened as she twisted the bullet from its place.

"Mmph, mfuckmm-" Franklin muttered about the gag. She sucked in a deep breath, gripped the bullet with cramped fingers and pulled it from his flesh as fast as she could. Blood spurt through the humid and stagnant air, staining more of the fabric of his and her ruined shirts. Franklin bit down on the tie, raggedly dragging on oxygen, before slightly relaxing against the group. Without a word, Melanie placed the bullet on the table.

"Oh... I think I just came," Trevor noisily remarked, eyes ablaze with shock and wonder. She wiped her bloody hands on her uniform slacks then immediately started packing the wound with gauze. She felt a shiver in her chest. What had she just done? She packed the hole in his shoulder then took a couple steps back.

"Let the gauze absorb for a bit then…I'll stitch it up… I'm sorry," she muttered, scurrying away from the men. She hurried through the door and sat down in the chair she had been restrained against earlier. Her knees wobbled. She could still feel his flesh around her fingers.

"Whoa! You're nearly done. Get it together and get back in there," Michael instructed as he pushed through the door. There was a pistol in his hand this time.

"What's wrong with you? Why am I doing this? Are you gonna kill me when I'm finished? I won't say anything. I swear," Melanie pleaded. He stretched his neck and ran a hand through his graying black hair.

"We're not good people, but we're not the worst. If we had taken Frank to the hospital, the three of us would have gotten thrown in prison for a long time. You just did us a huge favor and I owe you a lot for making this happen."

"I don't want anything."

"Not even two thousand dollars?" he tried. She swallowed hard and turned her eyes to him. He shifted his eyes away from her gaze and stretched his neck again. With a sigh, he tucked the gun somewhere under his suit jacket.

"Trevor's gonna kill me, but… After you stitch up Frank, we're each gonna give you a couple hundred out of our cut from the score. We hit a small-time bank in Paleto Bay. We were cut short because our sources were a little incorrect with some data, hence Franklin's injury. After you stitch him up, I'm gonna drop you off at your house and you're not gonna speak a word about anything that happened. The fact we know your name, address, and place of business should be enough to instill some fear in your heart. You're gonna go back to work. As far as you know, ambulance number four was in a rollover accident after some Balla gang bangers tried to ambush you and you woke up in a ditch, but you're okay."

"And what about my partner? Carter?" she questioned.

"He's been briefed already. Keep up your end of the deal and you'll see him when you see him."


	2. Promises

The automatic glass doors clamped shut behind Melanie as she entered Pillbox Hill Medical Center. The ominous, sterilized smell of hospital wafted against her senses and the bright, white lights hurt her brown eyes. She hadn't slept a wink last night. Her mind kept wandering back to the men she had encountered. They were criminals. Unhinged and unorthodox criminals who made a living for whatever families they had with dirty money. Unhinged and unorthodox criminals who had kidnapped her. The thought made her shudder. She had actually helped them, making herself an accomplice to whatever crimes they committed. What bothered her more-so was how they had graciously paid for her aid. Then even let her go! What kind of ramshackle charitable case were they?

"Cutlass!"

Carter's voice made her jump in her skin, abruptly ending her train of thought.

"You gonna make it?" he inquired, his periwinkle eyes on her and also carrying the burden of a sleepless night. She nodded and walked past him, pushing through the double doors leading toward their offices. His padded footsteps hurried along beside her.

"You sure? You look tired," he pointed out.

"That's because I am. This job takes a lot out of me," she quickly claimed. "Out of all of us."

His entire face contorted into a frown.

"In the three years we've been working here, that's news."

"I'm not allowed to complain?" she snapped. She checked in at the sign-in station and pushed her way into the locker room.

"If it isn't the dynamic duo," another paramedic greeted as he was pulling on his boots. "I can't believe that shit happened yesterday."

She hesitated, waiting.

"And to YOU out of all people? The mayor better do something about the gangs soon. I would've probably came after a Balla or three if something had happened to you guys," he continued. She nodded slowly, her eyes flitting back to Carter for just a moment. He wouldn't look at her. She continued on to her locker a few rows over.

"I didn't say you weren't allowed to complain. I just…" her partner trailed off. He took a seat on the wooden bench behind her. She couldn't take his nervous fidgeting anymore.

"How much did they give you?" she finally asked, unable to bite her tongue any longer. She wrung her hands nervously.

"Fifteen hundred," he quietly replied. She nodded and started to peel off her clothes then slip into a clean uniform of black cargo pants and a white collared shirt.

"What about you?" he pressed, eyes on her now.

"Two thousand."

"Where'd you go? When I woke up, the ambulance was burning at my feet and you were nowhere to be found."

"I'm not sure," she claimed with a shrug. "I didn't get to look around."

"What'd they do to you?" he asked, his eyes scanning her up and down. "Or what'd you do for them?"

She slammed the locker closed.

"Nothing."

"Well, Nicky wants an incident report on her desk by noon. The police want to investigate it," Carter explained. Melanie groaned and held her face in her hands. She plopped down on the bench beside him and rubbed her eyes.

"Carter, we cannot say anything about what actually went down. I mean it. They…" she lowered her voice. "They know things about me, about us. If we speak a single word on what happened, we're as good as done."

"Like?"

She frowned at her friend.

"Like where we work. What shift we were working. Which ambulance we ride in. Where we live," she spouted.

"Who were they? You think covering for them is more important than being honest to the police?"

"For your sake and mine - shut up. We don't speak on it. Ever. We were ambushed by Ballas and that's that."

"I have a problem with this," he interjected, standing again.

"They will kill us. Do you understand?" she hissed as she wrung her hands in his direction.

"Is that what they told you?"

"Carter, don't start with me!" she drew in a deep breath to settle her growing agitation. "Trust me, you don't want this getting out. Think about your life, your family, your career."

"They'd need a militia to get to my family. I'm trained better than whoever these people are."

She groaned, running a hand over her face.

"How'd you get away?" he pressed.

"One of them drove me home. Like I said, they know where we live. They've got access to information and if you think they won't come after us in the middle of the night, you're wrong. Look at the stunt they pulled in broad daylight."

He shook his head.

"Alright," he finally agreed. "We were struck by Ballas."

"Thank you," she breathed, throwing a hug around his shoulders.

Another paramedic stuck her head around their row of lockers.

"Nicky's looking for you two," she announced before disappearing again. The familiar slight limp of Nicky's gait shuffled closer and the woman appeared with a uniformed cop on her right arm. Carter took a slight step away from Melanie and cleared his throat.

"How're you two holding up?" she greeted, hands in the pockets of her khakis.

"Better than yesterday, Cap," Melanie responded, closing her locker. Carter nodded in agreement.

"This is Detective Clause. He and I have to fill out some paperwork about the incident. Who wants to start?"

"Well yesterday, we got a call at around four in the evening about a heart attack on Grove Street. Tammy from dispatch was the one who sent us to the scene. Melanie and I reached the site by ten after the hour," Carter quickly explained.

"As we pulled alongside the curb, Carter noticed a suspicious looking vehicle following closely behind. I departed from the rear of the ambulance, but three masked men in purple leapt from the tailing vehicle and forced me back inside. One climbed inside with me and…tried to wrestle with me but Carter forced him away," Melanie threw in. Carter nodded quickly.

"While Carter was wrestling with him, I climbed into the front seat and tried to drive us away from danger, but lost control and was rammed into a ditch. I woke up to Carter shaking me and-"

"I've heard enough," Detective Clause interjected. Melanie knelt and nervously fidgeted with the laces of her boots. He pulled out a phone and clicked through a few notes before it rang in his hands.

"Clause. Yes. I'm talking to the two right… Oh, perfect. Alright. Thank you."

Nicky turned to the federal worker.

"I've got a source coming in to my desk right now. I'll be in contact. Until then, I want these two only answering emergencies north of the inner city. Square, Miss Mills?"

"Square," Nicky sighed, relaxing beside the man. He sent the group a small nod before leaving the locker room. Nicky flashed a cheeky grin until the door swung shut and her entire demeanor changed.

"What the hell?" she hissed. "What happened out there? Are you okay?"

"It's getting bad in Los Santos," Melanie griped. "There are dangerous people out there."

"I'll say," Carter agreed with a deep sigh.

"Clean up ambulance number two. Take that one if you're called out and for Christ's sake, run away if you see any purple."

"Aye aye, Captain."

"And stop calling me 'captain' before I have an aneurysm," she scolded before stomping away. Immediately, Carter took his seat on the bench again.

"I'm getting too old for this," he sighed, running a rough hand over his face.

"This shouldn't be an issue. We shouldn't cross paths with them anymore," she insisted.

"What happens when they need your help or whatever again?"

"They're not gonna need my help again, Carter. I'm not…" she sighed, frustrated. "Their work is way out of our league."

"That's why they're gonna need you, Melanie. You're one of the best at what we do and whatever it is they do or have done, you complement it perfectly."

The disappointment in his voice struck a chord in her chest. She swallowed the lump in her throat and shuffled her feet.

"How am I supposed to know our next call site won't be another ambush by your friends, ready to trash another ambulance and whisk you away?" he seethed through his teeth.

"They're not my friends. Calm down. Don't make this personal-"

"Are you listening to yourself right now? They _ambushed_ us. They _knew_ exactly what to do. Whatever kind of shit show these men are in-"

"I had to perform surgery on their friend, okay?" she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. "He was shot and if he had went to the hospital, they all would have been arrested."

"What the fuck?" he snapped, his eyes bulging out at her. "Then that is their problem! This whole thing could've been avoided if you had just called the police."

Her entire face scrunched up and she nodded.

"Oh, yeah. I could've called the police when I woke up duct taped to that chair. I could've called the police when one of them had a knife at my neck. Sure. Because LSPD are just so damn good at their job, right?"

"When you got home, you should have called."

"You didn't meet the men I met, Carter. They would've more than likely let their friend bleed out than taken him to a hospital," she urged, fists tight by her sides.

"That wasn't your responsibility. It wasn't your job to do," he scolded with a shake of his head. She scoffed, holding out her arms.

"But it was my job. That's what we do. We save lives, the good and the bad."

He sat in silence, his leg jumping and his head shaking.

"The fucking gall on you, I swear," he groaned. "If my commander ever gets wind of this…"

"Just promise me you'll stick to the story. No one will hear anything if we both stay quiet. I need to know you swear not to speak a word on what really happened," she whispered.

"Fine. Fuck. I swear."


	3. Welcome to the Jungle

_DING DONG! DING DONG!_ The doorbell's chiming echoed through the quiet apartment. Melanie groaned into her pillow. She had just put herself to bed an hour ago after a forty-eight hour shift at the hospital. Prying open her eyes, she glared over at her bedside clock. Who the hell would be at her door at three in the morning? With sigh, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and shuffled from the room. Who else? It had to be one of them… She froze in her tracks and shook her head hard, clenching her eyes shut. No, that was just paranoia. It was probably a neighbor. It was raining and she had left her window down? They wanted to borrow some sugar? They needed to use the phone? With a roll of her eyes, she padded down the carpeted hall and crossed the living room before swinging the front door open wide.

The wild one that went by Trevor stood beneath the awning of her stoop. His clothes were wet from the downpour and he was hunched over slightly, his hand covering a bloodied patch of his shirt's fabric. She looked past him at the trashed police car parked crookedly along the curb in front of her apartment. Swallowing hard, she stepped to the side and let the man enter. He crossed the threshold and immediately stalked off to the kitchen, his wet boots squeaking beneath his weight.

"What happened?" Melanie questioned. She stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, watching as he gulped down one of her beers then popped the lid on a second. The bottle was half emptied when he tore it from his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and let out a deep sigh.

"Ran into some trouble with highway patrol," he explained then let out a belch. Her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes flickered away from his.

"What'd you do?"

"Doughnut eating bastard wanted me to walk a straight line then when I couldn't, he tried to cuff me, but I stopped 'em."

"Jesus…" she sighed, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers. She would be harboring a fugitive now. He stepped up to the woman. She shied away, but he placed both hands against the wall on either side of her, trapping her beneath his hard gaze.

"Don't go getting funky with me. You answered Mikey's call, you'll answer mine too. Hell, Frank might even call you if he needs help bad enough. You made yourself accessible," Trevor growled. The slight slur in his words led her to believe he was under the influence of some sort. His eyes were glazed over and there was more booze on his breath than the beer in her refrigerator, but something about him was wide awake.

"Alright," she finally settled, ducking past him and sliding open a drawer. He pulled his wet shirt over his head and flung it down to the linoleum with a heavy smack. Trying her hardest to ignore the various scars and tattoos adorning his torso, she placed a single hand on his chest and gently pushed him back. He didn't protest the silent order, leaning back against the counter.

"How'd you become a doctor?" he asked as she prepped her belongings on the counter beside him. She didn't bother correcting the man.

"It always appealed to me," she simply answered. He scoffed.

"Bloody accidents don't look like your forte, Missy," he softly hissed. She swatted away his hand as he toyed with the bottom of her camisole. Her eyes rolled again.

"How ya feel about picking up after bad guys now?" he pressed on.

"You and your friends aren't my first round of criminals," she replied, indifferent. "I've stitched up plenty DUIs and other wrong doers."

"Chump shit," he snorted. She shook her head, tearing the wrapper off an alcohol wipe.

"Crime is crime."

"Bullshit. You ain't seen real crime yet- OOWEEMAMA! What the fuck is that!"

He gripped her gloved hand as she dabbed at the laceration in his abdomen.

"Alcohol? I have to clean it before I bandage it," she quickly explained.

"Bandage?" he repeated, the hurt look melting out of his eyes to make way for curiosity.

"Yes."

"No stitches?" he tried. She leaned back, examining the wound again.

"No. It isn't that deep, but you'll need to slow down so the scab doesn't tear whenever it starts to form."

A creepy grin took over his face, filling his cheeks and wrinkling his eyes.

"I like you," he released her wrist. "You know your shit."

"Thanks, I guess."

"Don't ever be fucking bashful around me."

"Thank you," she corrected, hoping he'd tuck away his harsh tone. He stood upright and stretched as she pat down the last piece of tape over the gauze on his side.

"Mind if I crash here?" he scooped up his beer and took a sip. Her mouth opened to answer with a sharp "yes", but she caught his gaze. He stood, watching her from out of the corner of his eye, like a predator watching its prey, as she tucked away her tools.

"No. Go ahead," she cautiously answered. His tongue swiveled and danced in his partially agape mouth before he snapped his fingers in her direction, another toothy grin on his dirty face.

"Got any dry shirts lying around I could slide into?"

"Sorry. No."

"What?" he exclaimed, his heavy eyes widening. "Your boyfriend don't leave shit behind for you to sniff or sleep in or whatever it is you chicks do?"

"If I had a boyfriend, you certainly wouldn't be crashing on the couch, or anywhere near me for that matter," she answered smugly. Her sudden burst of attitude and confidence roused his core. He shook his head and scratched at his damp, wild hair.

"Well," he kicked off his boots and disappeared from the kitchen. "Night, doc."

She paused for a moment before groaning quietly and switching off the light. When she padded through the living room, he was haphazardly sprawled across the couch on his back with his phone to his ear.

"Enough about me. Mm. What're you wearing? Oh… Uncle T wishes he could see that sexy shit. Me? I got nothin' but my pants on right now…"

She gagged, hurrying down the hallway and closing her bedroom door. She twisted the lock and tossed herself onto her mattress. His muffled voice was barely audible through the door. She squeezed the bridge of her nose and sighed. This was going to get messy. She would call Michael first thing in the morning to talk about aforementioned opportunities…and his friend.

* * *

"You're so full of shit, pop. If you hate me, all you gotta do is say so."

As Melanie stepped closer to a mosaic of a front door to Michael's abode, she could hear shouting coming from inside. Careful not to eavesdrop, she raised a fist to knock, but the door swung inward and out barged a young man.

"Jimmy, I don't hate you," Michael added from just behind the man. He noticed the woman standing off to the side and beamed.

"Hey. You made it."

"Who's this? She's not gonna try to steal a car from us too, is she? Sup up, bitch? I know karate," the younger remarked.

"Excuse my son. James has been brainwashed by energy drinks and video games. Tone it down, Jim," Michael suggested. The frown on her face relaxed as she followed the two down the neat driveway.

"The sun is burning me right now. Mom was right about you. You don't know any better and you can't help it, because you're an asshole," his son complained. Melanie's eyebrows rose at his boldness. Michael whirled around to face his spawn.

"Is that what you think? Then why don't you do something about it? Besides just standing there? Why don't you hit me?"

"Is that what you want? To be hit by your son?" Jimmy asked.

"Yeah… No," Michael shook his head and relaxed his fists by his sides. "I just…want you to do something besides sit inside, eating, smoking dope, and jerking off."

Jimmy's cheeks grew pink as he glanced at the woman standing beside his dad.

"Thanks for the fucking guidance, Dad. It means a lot," he started storming down the driveway.

"Wait," Michael griped. "I'm just trying to help ya."

"Nothing says 'I love you' like smashing my fucking TV then exploiting me in front of your friend. Nothing at all!"

He began to sniffle and turn away from the two. Michael shot Melanie a look with pursed lips and exhaled through his nose.

"I'm sorry," he finally let out. "I just wish we could do things together."

"Yeah, what things? Rob banks and shoot people?"

Melanie grew wary and shuffled her feet. Even his son knew his means of business.

"I don't know. Uh, go for walks. Play ball," Michael tried.

"You know I have bad glands," Jimmy complained, his tone going softer.

"Bike ride then," she piped up, unable to withstand Michael's inability to relate to his child any longer.

"Bike ride?" Jimmy repeated, raising his tattooed arms to his dad. "You wanna go on a fucking bike ride? Fine. A bike ride along Vespucci Beach. Okay, Dad. I got just the thing to show you."

"Should I come back at another time or…?" Melanie hesitated.

"Nonsense. Get in," Michael knocked on the hood of a black Obey Tailgater waiting on the curb before he popped open the driver's side door. Jimmy plopped into the passenger seat then crossed his arms over his chest, pouting. Melanie lowered herself into the seat behind Jimmy before Michael pulled away from the curb. The two up front continued bickering as they flowed with the traffic through Rockford Hills. She gawked up at the high cobblestone walls encasing some of the tall and wide mansions. Sports cars and flashy SUVs glinted in the sun at every turn. She looked at Michael, clad in board shorts and a button-up Hawaiian shirt. He fit in with every other upper class pedestrian just fine.

It wasn't until the trio neared the beach front did she tune back into whatever frequency they were on.

"What's the big deal? If anything goes wrong, you can fake your death and start all over."

"Life's not that simple, James. Shut your mouth."

"We're here. Please don't shoot the bike rental guy out of, like, force of habit," Jimmy complained. Melanie stifled a frown and shook her head.

"Hey you. Three bikes," Michael ignored this son's snide remark and approached the rental shack.

"Uh, Michael, I…" she trailed off, deciding not to anger the older man any more.

"If I make it to the end of the pier first, you're gonna buy me a big-ass new flat screen," Jimmy wagered.

"End of the pier? Alright, but if I beat you, you have to start acting like a human being!" Michael matched.

"If I have a heart attack, it's your fault!" Jimmy whined. By the time Melanie situated her feet on the pedals of her own bike, the father-son duo was already viciously pedaling on the bike path along the beach and exchanging obscenities with one another. Suddenly, Trevor didn't seem so insane. She shook her head, standing on the pedals to try and close the distance.

"Excuse me! Watch out!" Melanie declared. She flicked at the bell attached to the handlebars, wincing as she barely missed beach-goers whizzing by.

"Dad! Wait!" Jimmy was yelling as she finally reached the end of the pier. A family of four scurried off the path as she barreled past the flashy fairgrounds. Coming to a halt, she caught Michael wrenching his shirt over his head and running toward the edge of the pier.

"Michael!"

"Stay with Jim! I'll meet you on the beach!" he bellowed over his shoulder before he dove into the ocean below. She rushed to the edge and peered over into the foamy, indigo depths below. Just below the surface, Michael was swimming arm over arm.

"This is so fucked," Jimmy muttered, standing beside her. She sent him a peculiar look.

"Where's he going?" Melanie asked.

"Tracey, my sister, is on that boat out there about to get banged by some porno producers and made famous," he laughed.

"You set this up on purpose?" she inquired.

"I'm not as dumb as I seem," he jeered. "And you're smarter than the last guy my dad brought around."

"Cut your dad some slack," she suggested. "He's irritated as is and I need him in a good mood when we talk. If we ever get around to it."

"Good mood? A GOOD MOOD? Michael De Santa wouldn't know what a good mood was if it came and sat on his face."

The sound of gunshots rang out in the distance.

"Shit," Jimmy cursed. "That's gotta be him. Come on!"

The two started back down the pier and hurried down a ladder that dug into the wet sand where the shore met the tide.

"There he is! Jimmy! You…You d-bag!"

A blonde came running along the beach as Michael dismounted a Seashark. There was blood on his left shoulder.

"He's the douche, okay! He smashed my TV and he brought me to the beach. The beach, Trace! With my skin!" Jimmy declared.

"So what? You send him out to ruin my day too?" she shrieked.

"I didn't know that he was going to come get you! I just told him where you were. You know, he got that crazy look in his eyes. You know, how he gets sometimes, and he just went," Jimmy reasoned.

"I'm getting a cab," Tracey marched away. Jimmy glanced back at his dad and Melanie then followed his sister.

"I'm coming with you."

"How about I just drive us home?" Michael interjected, arms wide.

"You ruined my life," Tracey cried, leaving Michael in the sand. He sighed, shaking his head as he turned back to Melanie.

"I promise, it's not always this extreme," he said with a smile.

"I'll take family drama over encounters with Trevor at three in the morning any day," she sighed.

"That what you wanted to talk to me about?" he asked, wincing slightly as she offered over his shirt and he pulled it over the cut in his arm. She started to examine the wound but he stepped away.

"Nah, I'm alright. What's T done already?"

"He got a little banged up running from the police last night. They tried to get him for driving under the influence and I patched him up before the sun came up."

Michael shook his head.

"Fucking Trevor. Crazy son of a bitch. I'll keep an eye on him if that'll make you feel any safer."

"Well that's not all I wanted to talk to you about," she added as she followed him across the beach. He glanced her way.

"You're curious," he quietly noted. Her tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth. She'd had an entire speech prepared. Between the money the three had given her for saving Franklin and the change that was two-hundred wrinkled dollars and a mint Trevor had left on her kitchen table when she woke up to an empty apartment that morning, "curious" was only the tip of the iceberg.

"I'll tell you one thing, kid… If you pick up the phone twenty-four hours from now and I'm on the other end of that receiver, you have one shot to back out. That's it. But if you say yes one time, that's yes till the end – no matter how that end is met. Do you understand?" he explained. She shook his extended hand and nodded.

"I understand."


	4. The Vangelico Job

Michael let out another heavy sigh and scratched the graying hair at the nape of his neck.

"It's not exactly necessary, dog. Do we really need to drag her into this life?" Franklin inquired.

"I left the decision up to her. It's her call," he explained.

"But can't we manage without a medic?" the younger man questioned.

"What about _more_ than a medic?" Michael suggested. He turned to his best friend for his input. The slightly under the influence, tattooed man shrugged.

"You already know what I think. She's hot…"

"Don't be a pervert, Trev. Jesus Christ."

"Mhmm. So fucking call her so I can stare some more," he finished. "She ain't a liability yet."

"Man, do you think we'll need an extra set of hands or not? Fuck. I hate tryna talk to y'all," Franklin declared, leaning back in his chair.

"Might as well get over it, kid. I think I know what's best," Michael sighed, pulling out his phone.

"Then put some pep in your step, fattie," Trevor tugged at his crooked tie. "Lester the molester will be here soon."

"I got it. I got it," he mused with a wave of one of his hands. VISIT THE WAREHOUSE ON SAN ANDREAS BOULEVARD ASAP. NEED YOUR HELP. REMEMBER WHAT I TOLD YOU ON THE BEACH. THIS IS IT. He pressed the Send key and finally exhaled.

"Guess I'm in good hands if I get shot again," Franklin shook his head. "We're so fucked."

"There is no 'if'. You're gonna get shot again," Trevor spoke up. The other men sent him peculiar looks.

"You're kidding? Look at what we do!" he declared, his hands in the air. "We just recruited a poor, defenseless, beautiful paramedic and we don't even have casualties yet."

" _Yet_. I'd rather have her on standby and ready than have to rush to her when one of us is bleeding out," Michael snapped. "Unlike you, I'm not one for unexpected house calls."

"She got herself in this mess. She can get herself out."

"That's bullshit and you know it, T."

"Both of y'all shut up. I'll talk to her," Franklin interjected, jabbing a thumb into his chest.

"Talk?" Trevor raised an eyebrow. "You'll _talk_ to her? Uhh…no, you won't. I know what you're tryna do, slick."

"You mean besides help out a fellow hardworking Los Santos citizen before two old, insane fucks drag her in the game so deep she can barely breath in oxygen to clear up her head in order to come up with some kind of master plan at getting back to a normal life? Enlighten me," Franklin went on. Trevor's eyes shone as the gears began to turn in his head.

"Mikey, your balls are sitting in the bottom of some hooker's dresser drawer right now. Frank, you're still in denial about your girlfriend breaking up with you then getting pregnant by a doctor who is four times richer than all us combined. What's her name? Tr-Trisha? Tina? Trina?" Trevor snapped his fingers as he tried to think with his clouded brain. Franklin sucked his teeth.

"Tanisha," he scowled. "And she ain't got shit to do with it. I'm just tryna be a good person."

"We're not good people," Michael warned on his way over to the window. "I told you that."

"So what? That makes me a bad person too? I'm a bad apple 'cause I hang out with bad apples?" Franklin demanded, growing frustrated with his mentors. "And Trevor, I'm sure you're the only dude I know crazy enough to concentrate on fucking her at a time like his."

"Like you two haven't seen her tits squeezed together under that tight, white shirt. She's gorgeous," the man squealed. His two colleagues both face-palmed themselves. Michael glanced down at his wrist watch and stared back out the window. He almost wished he hadn't sent the e-mail. With Lester's help, Melanie, a guy on transport and an extra gunman on board, he would have to split the money seven ways now. Not only that, but he felt like a shit bag for starting up something that he knew would become a habit every time a job was available. The question was, how long would she be willing and able?

He shook his head, tuning out his thoughts and the squabbling of Franklin and Trevor bickering. An off-white Penumbra pulled into a yellow parking space outside of the rundown warehouse. He watched Melanie step out and cup a hand over her eyes against the sun, squinting upward at the unfamiliar building.

"Fuckin' A," Michael declared, swiftly exiting the room and hustling down the staircase. He pushed open one of the double doors and popped his head outside.

"In here, kid," he beckoned, both relieved and anxious. She hurried past and he bolted the door behind the both of them.

"Hey," he paused and turned to his recruit. "You know how to fix these?"

She nodded, taking the tie draped across his open palm. She popped his collar and placed the fabric in the crease of the dress shirt.

"Nervous?" Michael asked. Her big brown eyes flickered up to his blue gaze then back down to the charcoal gray tie sliding through her nimble fingers. She nodded. He was nervous too, more-so anxious, but he hid it well with the years of experience.

"Don't be. We don't bite that hard. Well, most of us. I can't speak for Trevor," he chuckled. A small, wry smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. He claimed they were harmless… However, his family hated him, Franklin hadn't shot himself, and a drunk Trevor took down a cop in cold blood. Whatever they called themselves doing certainly wasn't "harmless".

"Thanks," he told her once she wiggled the tie's knot closer to his throat. He tucked the tail of the finished fabric behind the gut of his jacket and led the way upstairs. She followed him into a humid office where the others were waiting.

"Sup?" Franklin greeted, leaning back so his chair rest on its two back legs.

"She made it," Trevor spoke up from the corner. They all wore suits, with the exception of Melanie, who donned a black polo over a pair of tan slacks. Her hair was pulled into a thick bun at the back of her head. She tugged at the collar of her shirt, growing warm under the eyes of the three anxious men.

"How-How're your stitches holding together?" she managed, hoping to alleviate the heat welling beneath her collar.

"They itch like a mug, but I ain't bleeding out or dead, so there's that," Franklin explained. He stood and offered her the chair. She shook her head.

"It's okay. I'll stand."

"Jesus, kid," Trevor started up. "I must've made you hit your head pretty hard to knock some sense OUT of ya. What you wanna hang around us for, huh?"

"Enough. You make us sound like the bad guys," Michael retorted, interrupting his friend.

"You're not?" she inquired. The entire room silently simmered for a moment before the three men burst into uproarious laughter. A door opened and the group tried their best to fall silent. Franklin masked his chuckling with a cough. Michael glowed red in his cheeks. Trevor had one hand clasped over his mouth and the other in a tight fist by his side. Lester, the closeted brains behind these three musketeers, hobbled across the room. She couldn't help staring at his walking cane and the thick-framed glasses resting on his chubby face.

"I guess I missed the punch-line. Afternoon gentlemen…and lady," he surveyed the woman up and down. "Who is this?"

"Melanie Cutlass. We're trying our luck with a new addition to the crew," Michael claimed before anyone else could. Lester frowned.

"Luck?" he retorted in his nasally voice. "We're not _gambling_. This isn't trial and error. It's trial and get the hell out of there. How well do you work under pressure? What are your references? Any prior experience? Do you even know how to hold a gun? Hot wire a car? Elude the LSPD?"

She swallowed hard against the growing lump in her throat.

"You can't even do half those things-"

"Your point?" he snapped back. "You wouldn't have any work if it weren't for me."

"Alright. She's worked with us once before. She's good people," Michael insisted.

"I've heard that one before. Full name? Social security number? Some photo identification? Forget it. I'll figure it out myself," Lester continued.

"You can work your magic _after_ this job," Michael snapped. "We need her."

The handicapped man stood with his hand open and waiting.

"Cut us some slack, dude. She wouldn't be invited if she didn't prove useful or talented," Franklin butted in.

"She has vocal cords, yes? She can speak for herself. What can you contribute?" Lester asked.

"I'm here in case someone gets injured again," she responded, glancing at Franklin.

"These men standing beside you are professionals. We don't need a nurse. We need accurate gunmen. Maybe someone with hand-to-hand combat skills or another hacker genius," he explained, turning away. "But if you all insist... I guess this means we won't need you to multitask, Trevor. Melanie Cutlass, you'll be in the chopper with him. You have a good throwing arm or are you as weak as you look?"

"I've carried two-hundred pound women down flights of stairs and fought off plenty of men in grief. I think I can manage throwing something," she hissed, slightly peeved at the man's feeble faith. Michael cracked a smile.

"She dug a bullet out my stomach. I think she's good to go," Franklin vouched.

"If Trevor's okay with her riding along, then I guess she can stay," Lester finally gave in.

"She fixed me up something good too," he added with a nod. "Not afraid of heights, are you, sugar tits?"

* * *

"You want me to believe you, Franklin and Michael were behind those two Merryweather Security vans going missing and the assassination of Vapid's CEO on the boardwalk?" Melanie asked full of intrigue and anxiety.

"Personally, I don't care if you do or not, but I know what we pulled off. Your validation ain't needed. By the way, initials only when we're workin'. Don't need to draw any attention to specifics," Trevor explained. He glanced over and found her gripping onto the edge of the seat for dear life.

"I'm a certified pilot. You can relax," he informed, voice crackling and squeaking in the headset. She quickly nodded.

"Yeah. You're also a kidnapper. Neither are reassuring titles at the moment."

"You're feisty. Take it back," he quietly ordered, grip tightening around the cyclic-pitch lever between his legs.

"Take what back?" she asked, brow furrowing. Without warning, Trevor shoved the lever forward and the helicopter began a nosedive toward the Alamo Sea just as they finished scaling the mountain range tucked behind it.

"What's wrong with you? Are you crazy?" she shrieked. He let out a wicked laugh, lips pulled back in a Cheshire grin. She gripped the seat tighter and planted her feet to the floor.

"Take it back!" he growled into the microphone.

"Take what back? Sorry? I'm sorry!" she screamed. He yanked back the shift and the helicopter leveled itself out, waves of froth disturbing the water beneath them.

"What's going on up there? Why're you howling in my ear?" Michael's voice crackled over the headset. Melanie's heart beat hard against her sternum.

"Just a little miscommunication," Trevor replied with a crooked scowl. "Won't happen again."

"T, I swear, if you blow this…" Michael started up.

"Yeah yeah yeah. I'm not the one that's gotta throw sleepy time gas into the air ventilation system of a high-end jewelry store while travelling over fifty miles per hour," he cut his eyes at Melanie. She reached under her seat and grabbed one of the faintly familiar canisters. It was the same gas the men had used to take down her and Carter. She scowled at the pilot, but he wasn't paying any attention. He carefully piloted the bird around the state penitentiary as he neared the city limits.

"Alright, M. I'm closing in on the LS. Let F know when you're in position," Trevor explained.

"Will do," Michael responded. Melanie swallowed the lump in her throat and watched as the VINEWOOD sign to whizzed by beneath them.

"Me and the boys are set. You in place, M?" Franklin voiced in.

"I'm almost at the river, F."

"How much time did the hacker get you before the alarms on the cases go off, anyway?" Trevor asked.

"A minute and thirty. She's good at what she does. Plenty of time to scoop up a couple hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewels."

Melanie's ears pricked at Michael's declaration.

"Hundred thousand?" she echoed, butting in.

"Shit. She can hear me? You gave her a headset?" Michael asked.

"Duh," Trevor taunted. "It's a two-way closed channel. Ain't she working with us?"

"Just don't fuck this up, kid. T-Minus, sixty seconds."

Melanie unbuckled her seat-belt and tightened her grip on the can.

"Easy tiger," Trevor cooed, eyes scanning over the sunny city. He lowered his altitude just slightly. A small shadow of the airborne vehicle passed over the wide streets, fast cars, and tall buildings. He watched Melanie slip from her seat and slide open her door. Stray strands of hair whipped around her face and ears. She gripped the bar alongside the front window. The wind yanked the air from her lungs.

"T-Minus fifteen seconds."

"I'm like eight seconds out!" Trevor growled.

"Shit. Just drop it when you reach the mark," Michael ordered. Her hands trembled.

"Now!" Trevor barked. She pulled the pin and tossed the can toward the olive green box perched atop the roof of the building they had vigorously studied blueprints covering. The can spun in the air, an obnoxious greenish-yellow gas billowing from a small hole in the top. The canister disappeared from her line of sight as the vehicle jerked to the right without warning.

"Shiiiit!" Trevor howled, pulling hard on the stick as thick power lines dauntingly hung just feet away from them. He had been so eager to hit the store, he only thought to look over the store's blueprints the night before. A mistake. Another fucking mistake. Melanie was thrown from the helicopter as he executed a sharp left turn. She gasped, cool air whipping at the bare skin of her sweaty face. Trevor tapped the pedals at his feet and tugged at the lever, fighting to steady the chopper and avoid a collision with a Medevac narrowly whirling by. Melanie's sweaty hands went slack on the cool metal stick she used to cling on to the bird. She glanced downward at the buildings and streets zooming past hundreds of feet beneath them.

"Fuck," she exhaled. She grew dizzy, her entire body trembling. Just as she lost her grip and felt gravity tugging at her ankles, one of Trevor's calloused hands gripped her right wrist. He grit his teeth together, struggling to pull her aboard with his right hand while piloting with his left. She caught her footing on the skid beneath her and grabbed her seat with both hands before hurling herself onto the floor. He gawked down at the woman, amber eyes wide.

"M?" he called into his microphone, eyes still on her. Her heart was beating so hard, her chest hurt.

"MMMMIKE!"

"Shut up! We're in and we're grabbing the rocks. Get that bird on the ground before LSPD gets theirs in the air!" Michael joyously exclaimed after a moment's delay. With that, Melanie yanked off her headset and pulled her door shut before plopping down in the co-pilot's seat. Trevor laughed hysterically then reached over and ruffled her messy hair. He pried back one earphone then asked,

"You gonna make it?"

"I just wanna get on the ground again," she panted.

"Gimme a couple minutes," he reassured. The infamous VINEWOOD sign perched atop the rolling green hills situated north of the fabulous, but sleazy Los Santos whizzed by underneath them again.

"I told you, I know what I'm doing," he spoke up after a few seconds of silence. "I was a pilot in the Air Force."

"What happened?" she quietly asked after noting his use of past tense. He stared right out the window of the cockpit.

"Discharged for personal reasons."

"Such as…?" she pressed. She could assume why, but after the stunt he had pulled earlier, assumptions weren't her brightest idea.

"If you can't tell it by now, you're not as smart as we're making you out to be," he retorted.

"Thank you."

He glanced in her direction.

"For…?"

"Not letting me fall," she claimed. He shrugged a shoulder and tightened his lips.

"Where are we going?" she asked to his silence.

"Back to the airfield. I gotta land and we've gotta lay low until Lester's people clean and flip the jewels."

"Clean and flip?" she echoed.

"Jesus Christ…" he looked over at her. "I forget there are some shreds of innocence left in this shitty city. Look, don't worry about it."

"How long are we laying low for?" she continued on, nervous.

"Till it's safe for you to go back to the city," he grunted. Her eyebrows skyrocketed.

"I'm staying with _you_? Where?" she shrieked.

"In my trailer…mm…in Blaine County. Trevor Phillips Country."

The helicopter began a descent over a giant, yellow letter H painted onto the dusty runway they had departed from earlier.

"Trevor…Phillips…Country?" she mumbled, running a hand over her face. "God, what am I doing?"

"Sandy Shores is beautiful. Least you're getting paid, princess. Shut your fuckin' mouth," he remarked. He eased his grip on the stick and leveled out the helicopter. Red dirt swirled in the air as the two descended closer to the ground.

"I grabbed one of them med-pack thingies and stashed it at my place. You may or may not need it. Quite frankly, I think you're fine," he narrated.

"I am fine," she insisted. "How're the others getting out of there?"

"Gus got Frank and Packie motorbikes. He's got a course mapped out through the sewers and subway systems beneath the city. When they pop out on the Los Santos River, Mike will be in a truck on standby. They'll pull into the back then ride off into the sunset," he explained. He switched off the engine and leapt from the bird as the blades slowly whirred overhead.

"Why Vangelico?" she asked, hurrying along behind him as he marched across the dusty tarmac.

"I thought you out of all people would understand and be opposed to the business, seeing as it caters to the ill-experienced and overpaid non-minority," he explained over his shoulder. She stopped in her tracks.

"So because I'm not part of the majority, I'm supposed to be okay with robbing a bunch of rich, white people WITH some rich, white people?"

He turned around to put a finger up, stopping her before she could go any further.

"I ain't rich, honey. Culturally, yes, but compared to that scum bag, Michael? Sitting in a mansion in Rockford Hills, slowly rotting away on the inside?" he wagged a finger in her direction. "No way in hell."

"You work with him. Why's he a scum bag?" she asked.

"Your curiosity is giving me a hard-on," he commented, climbing into his truck and slamming the door behind him. "You'll need to ask him yourself if you want a halfway decent answer."

"Why? When I could just ask you?" she pressed, hoisting herself into the passenger seat. He reached to turn the ignition only to stop himself.

"Shut your pretty little yap before I make you shut it."


	5. Mr Philips

_**Anyone know how to start planning a wedding?**_

* * *

A rat squeaked as it scurried along the baseboard in the far corner of the room. A faint bell rang downstairs as another customer wandered into the liquor store below.

"Be back. Don't move," Trevor ordered, marching from the room. She meekly nodded and crossed her legs one over the other. Moving was the last thing on her mind. Between the shifty liquor store hiding his second-story meth lab and the large rats bustling around in the shadows of the unkempt room, Melanie was nearly glued to her seat. It had been a long, humid day of circular conversations about the Vangelico job and methamphetamines. She swallowed hard, her throat sore and scratchy from the unfamiliar, desert heat. She missed the city and Carter and her job… How the hell had she even managed to get swept under the rug with these lunatics so quickly?

"You can't tell me you haven't been the least bit curious," Trevor's voice taunted as his boots came thudding back up the staircase.

"No. I've seen what it turns people into," she answered.

"You saying I'm something I'm not?" he fired back.

"I mean…" she trailed off, mouth growing even drier as she watched the makeshift chemist hunch over various beakers and pans. "No. The process is…intriguing, but I'm not one for drugs."

"I've been cooking for this county for years. I'm the best around," he commented over his shoulder. She frowned and tugged at the collar of her polo, gears turning in her brain.

"That factory explosion on the news a few weeks ago… They found a meth lab underneath it. Was that you?"

"So you are smart. I had to, eh, get rid of the competition in the area. A couple Aztecas thought they knew what they were doing," he growled. She nodded, a prickly intimidation molding itself in the shape of a lump in her throat. He moved around a few beakers and cracked pitchers then turned all the knobs on the stovetop off.

"Ya know…" he faced her and rest the back of his head against a cabinet. "You've handled everything a lot different than I expected."

"What were you expecting?" she asked, fidgeting in the rickety wooden chair.

"See? You're curious. I expected lots of crying, denial and refusal. What was it?"

"I don't understand the question."

"Was it the money? I saw the hunger glisten in your pretty, little eyes when you got paid for helping Frank. Was that it? Or the thrill of it all? The adrenaline?"

Before she could react, he was standing dangerously close in front of her. She leaned as far back in the chair as she could manage before it tipped over backward. He gripped the wooden space free between her legs and yanked so all four legs were on the floor again. The musk rolling off of him sent a crippling anxiety to pluck at her brain.

"It-It was both," she quickly answered, hoping her answer would make him take a few steps back. His amber eyes glistened as he nodded.

"I was a little curious after I helped Frank. Now the jewelry store? You guys turned the gems in for cash? I… I never heard of money coming in like that. All I had to do was chip in and I'm getting a cut I probably won't have any idea what to do with. It was either that or be killed because I was a loose end…"

He could feel himself getting excited as she spoke, but he remained calm. She was so smart and he could see the roughness accumulating within her. He was glad he had shoved her and knocked her out cold that day. Man, how long had it been since they met? Two or three weeks? His head hadn't been clear since he cut the crystal, cold turkey.

"How long do you think you'll be around?" he grunted. She shrugged a shoulder and asked,

"How long do I have to stay in the county?"

"Probably another two days," he responded, finally turning away. "Michael will call. No worries. Anyways, you've got some toughening up to do."

She tore her eyes away from the moth knocking itself against the bare light bulb in the center of the humid room.

"I'm tough enough," Melanie countered.

"Mmph. Get in the truck," Trevor ordered. He swiped up the keys to his Bodhi and marched from room. Before he departed the liquor store, he punched the cash register and stuffed whatever green bills lie in the drawer into the pocket of his dirty sweats. The cool desert wind raked itself through his dark hair and a train's horn roared in the distance. He cast his eyes to the dirty, shattered glass doors and nestled into the driver's seat. Just as one of the doors swung outward, he switched on his high beams, put the truck in Drive then sped down the narrow street.

"Hey!" Melanie hollered, starting up the road. A coyote howled somewhere in the distance. She started off after the dirty, maroon vehicle. The dull red brake lights shone as he slowed just enough for her to catch up.

"What the hell are you doing? Get in! I'm ready to go home!" he barked over his shoulder. His tired eyes watched her in the rearview mirror. He revved the engine and sped back up. The sturdy engine rattled and clunked.

"I'm not doing this! What the hell?" she complained, slowing her gait.

"Pussies don't last very long in this world!" he exclaimed. His words stung like the sore spot at the back of her throat. She ran faster, jaw clenched. The engine choked as Trevor took his foot off the gas. The vehicle idly cruised down the quiet road. Melanie sprang forward, wrapping an arm over the end of the truck and lifting her feet from the pavement. With a smirk, he brought a heavy foot down on the brake.

"Oof!" she grunted as her frame lurched forward before bouncing back. He slowly exited the truck and found her lying on her back in the middle of the road.

"Melanie. I said, get in," he whimsically replied.

"Trevor… I just… You were…" she groaned then rest her head on the pavement. "Is this some kind of joke?"

He planted his hands on his hips and gazed up then down the road.

"When the bad guys are shooting at you from cover or you're riding shotgun in a high-speed chase down the side of Mount Chiliad, do you think you'll have time to press pause or recover?" he questioned.

"No," she grunted, rolling over onto all fours. "But I don't plan on being caught in either situation, so…"

"What kind of business you think we're running, sweet cheeks? You're not hiding out in Blaine County without reason," he explained, growing amused. He grabbed her arm and yanked her upright. She supported herself against the bumper.

"But…can't this wait till morning or something? People are sleeping and your truck is loud as-"

"FUCK the people SLEEPING! They can all SUCK MY COCK!" he barked. She jumped at his declaration.

"Gotdamn it, Trevor!" someone wailed in the distance.

"Fuck you!" he shot back. "Fuck you! Fuck you! I run this county! Besides, there's no way out at this point."

He started around the side of the truck again.

"I wouldn't tell anyone anything," she insisted, chest rising and falling as she struggled to catch her breath. He stopped in his tracks and kicked away a rock. He didn't want to have this conversation. He had thought about letting the woman go when they landed after the Vangelico job the day before. He didn't want to confront the feelings brewing inside his chest and skull. He was always so good at hiding them.

"I know you wouldn't."

He slammed his door, started the engine and pulled away. Melanie stood in place and watched as he crept further away. A door opened behind her and a dog barked. She shuddered against the cool, desert air. A coyote darted across the road just a few feet away from where she stood. She gasped. Finally, she stumbled and jogged after the vehicle in the dark. She managed to jump onto the bumper and throw herself into the bed of the truck. The sweat running down the middle of her back itched.

"If you know I won't squeal, then you can let me go. Right out here. I'll find a way back home by myself. It might take me a while, but I'd never speak a word on anything I've seen or done," she quickly panted, hoping to win him over. He rolled his eyes.

"That's cute," he chortled. "Buckle up."

"What-"

He tapped the brake then stepped on the gas. She lost her sweaty grip and was tossed backwards against the metal bed.

"My wrist!" she cried. Trevor pulled over on the side of the road and leapt into the bed.

"Lemme see," he demanded, grabbing her forearm. He rotated her hand then gave her a high-five, to which she winced.

"You're fine. You need some injuries to toughen you up. Get out. You're running again."

* * *

"What the fuck is this? Melanie? Melanie, wake up!" Michael declared. "Trevor, what the fuck happened?"

"She had too much to drink," Trevor lied, perched on his kitchen counter top with a cheap Pisswasser beer in hand. "It was all too much for her. Beauty can't handle the Beast. I told her to sleep it off."

"Melanie?" Michael gently grabbed her face and her head rolled against the pillow. Warm blood began to spill from her nose.

"A nosebleed?" he swiftly lifted Melanie's lifeless body from the bed and waddled from the bedroom. Her polo and khakis, dirty from days of wear and unnecessary running and rolling around, clung to her clammy skin.

"She's resting, Mikey," Trevor grumbled, no longer in the mood for a scolding. He plucked at the peeling skin outlining the faded tattoos on his knuckles. It was a nervous habit. He didn't fear a man in the world, but when it came to Michael, he knew better. Sometimes. Only sometimes. Michael sat her up against the floor of the shower and turned on the cold water.

"Kid? Wake up," Michael crooned, crouching beside her. The water spattered at his black Oxfords and the sleeves of his suit as he desperately pat her cheeks. Her head lolled and a low groan escaped her throat. A weight lifted from his shoulders. He had just brought her into the game and he never wanted to be the one responsible for her dying. He suspected he knew what happened and grew livid.

"Are you out of your fucking mind? Giving her methamphetamine?"

"She started talking about leaving. What else was I supposed to do?" Trevor asked with a roll of his tense shoulders.

"Talk her into staying, not get her high!" Michael snapped. "How much did you give her? What if she gets addicted to that shit?"

"Then she won't go nowhere. She wouldn't. She can't. I'm the _only_ person in the entire San Andreas with the perfect purity to get her the perfect high. She'll come crawling right fucking back to us. Chill _out_ , Michael. You're getting your panties in a knot," Trevor insisted.

"Do you _ever_ hear yourself talk?" Michael huffed with a disgusted look. He returned to Melanie's side as she slipped in and out of wake.

"Come on," he hissed. He straightened out her limp arm. Four separate needle holes sat square in the crook of her elbow. Michael hurriedly switched off the shower and jerked off the jacket of his suit. He draped it over her damp shoulders and picked her up again. She shuddered against his frame, goosebumps dotting her caramel skin.

"You're a fucking psychopath, you know that?" he spat at Trevor's feet. He kicked out the screen door and stepped into the desert sun with Melanie in tow. She gasped, eyes tightening.

"She's fine. They were small doses," Trevor claimed. "Just enough for a crazy trip and some incapacitation. Where are you going?"

"Back to Los Santos. Lester's people are done with the rocks. You had better hope she sobers up," Michael coldly threatened. He laid her across the backseat of his Tailgater before running around to the front of the car and hopping in the driver's seat. He slammed the door shut behind him and sped away from Trevor's trailer. Trevor watched the dirt trails whip in the wind as Michael's car faded between the heat waves up the road then around the corner of a building. He turned back inside his trailer. Marching into the kitchen, he reached atop the cabinet over the microwave and pulled down a plastic baggie full of an off-white substance. He caught sight of his dirty pipe resting on the edge of the sink and his heart fluttered in his chest.

As he contemplated breaking the seal, a phone started ringing. He pat his back pocket and found his phone in place. It wasn't his. The ringing persistently continued. His ears pricked at the nuisance and he hurried to the small room. Amid the messy, stained blankets lie Melanie's cell phone. Franklin's name flashed on the screen. Trevor suppressed a growl and switched off the device.


	6. Mr De Santa

"Is that a hooker?" Michael's wife questioned, right at his heels as he bounded the stairs of his home.

"Mandy, no. She's one of my coworkers," he replied through his teeth.

"What's she doing here? She can't be inside my house. What's wrong with her?" Amanda pressed. Michael hurried around the corner, ignoring his wife, and entered the guest bedroom. He laid Melanie on the mattress and ran a hand through his short hair.

"I need a favor."

"Like what?"

"Undress her," he suggested.

"Excuse me?" she gasped, disgusted.

"She'll get sick if she stays like this. I'll wash her clothes. Don't worry about it."

Amanda's wide eyes darted over her husband's angered face.

"You're so full of shit, Michael," she grumbled as she unbuttoned Melanie's pants. "Get out."

Michael slipped out of the room and leaned against the wall in the hall.

"Stupid, _stupid_ , stupid prick," he muttered, pressing his palms to his tired eyes. He should've pushed Melanie onto Franklin. He had been wrong to trust Trevor. He didn't trust the man with his own family. That was why he had tried to forget him once before, leave him behind... Amanda emerged from the room before shoving the damp clothes in his direction and closing the door behind her.

"Your new girlfriend is all tucked in and resting," she sarcastically spat.

"Mandy, don't start."

"I don't want her here. I don't want her around my kids. She's a fucking mess."

"You're one to talk. You have no choice. She's a paramedic. She's been helping me and the guys lately. Trevor fucked around and doped her up with crystal while he was watching her," he explained. "If she dies, that's more blood on my hands than I can deal with right now and I won't let that happen."

"Do I even want to know how you got a paramedic to join your rage-induced rampages of stealing and killing?"

"Hey! You're an accomplice. I don't see you complaining about my stealing and killing when you're swiping your card at the plaza!" he declared. Amanda let out a shriek and stomped her feet.

"That's because you said you were done! We were out! You said you were done with that life, but you're officially out of your fucking mind and I'm out of my element!" she yelled on her way down the stairs. "And my fucking chakras are ruined! Again! I want a divorce!"

"Oh yeah? Then go get a fucking lawyer with my fucking money!" he shouted back.

"I'm going out!" she shrieked, yanking open the front door. "And when I come back, I want you and that drug addict out of here!"

* * *

"Oh my gosh. No way! I was just thinking about giving Fame or Shame another shot too! My dad and uncle rushed in and, like, harassed Lazlow and his guards right in the middle of my performance. It was so embarrassing!"

"Shut the fuck up before I shove a bullet up your dick holes! Oh yeah? Well your mama was sucking my dick from the back last night while you were busy trying to one-up my high ass motherfucking kill streak!"

Melanie rolled onto her back and continued listening to the two faintly familiar muffled voices ramble on aimlessly.

"Yeah, I can totally sing and dance! Everyone on there always does one or the other, singing or dancing. But what if I went and, like danced WHILE singing? What? No, I won't get breathless. I have two lungs for a reason. Duh," Tracey babbled.

"Hey FYI, no one likes a fucking troll, but guess the fuck what? I don't fucking care! I'm the kind of troll rich bastards like Devin Weston and Jock Cranley wished they had licking the piss dribbling down their ballsacks just so their old, sagging asses have something to deal with as they slowly demerit down Vinewood's most-famous list and closer to the fucking grim reaper," his son cursed. Melanie slowly hoisted herself upright. The entirely unfamiliar room shifted. She rubbed her eyelids and drew in a deep breath. The cool air in the room felt wonderful against her warm skin. She hugged the blanket to her bare frame. She didn't remember getting undressed. Her eyes rest on her clothes, neatly folded and waiting for her on the corner of the bed. Her forearm tingled as she examined the tiny, blood red dots Trevor's needle had left behind.

God, she felt like an idiot for doubting his motives. The two had gotten into an argument and she had chosen to fall asleep on his couch after he disappeared to his bedroom. She had even woken up slightly after the initial needle prick, but he stroked her face and doped her up before she could stir again. A deep, dark cloud swiftly glided overhead before she fell victim to the drugs pumping through her veins. Why had he done this?

Melanie stretched her aching joints and rose to her nearly numb feet. She scanned her surroundings as she wriggled back into her wrinkled outfit. The pinkish-apricot and burgundy wallpaper was an instant indicator that she wasn't in her own place, or Trevor's for the matter. The door slightly creaked as she pushed it open. The girl's voice ceased. Soft footsteps crossed a room and the door across the hall cracked open.

"Ew," the girl remarked, voice heavy with snob. Her door shut again. Melanie shifted her eyes to a photograph hanging on the wall in the hallway. Michael stood alongside a brunette woman she assumed to be his wife and two younger adults, the unruly kids she had met only once before. The door opened, startling the lucid paramedic.

"Well come on," Tracey commanded. She snatched up a sock draped across the banister and tossed it into her brother's room.

"Pick up after yourself, you disgusting slob!" she cursed before she slammed his bedroom door shut.

"Eat my shorts!" his muffled voice laughed. She shrieked and clamored down the staircase.

"Dad? Daddy!"

"What?" Michael's voice responded from downstairs. Melanie slowly followed after under an odd, bronzed chandelier and through a spacious foyer.

"Your…" Tracey looked Melanie's woozy form over from head to toe. "Friend's awake."

"Thanks, Trace," Michael rose from the couch and approached his comrade.

"Whatever," she pressed a cell phone to her ear as she turned away. "Sorry. I was helping my dad with this homeless woman. She's totally trashed or something like outta this world…"

Her voice faded back up the staircase with her. Michael laughed once.

"Bet you didn't think you'd encounter my Thing One and Thing Two again. I assume Jimmy didn't even come out of his room?" he sighed.

"Mhm," she pressed her palms to her eyes. Michael stepped closer to the staircase.

"James!" he bellowed. "Put an end to that cursing before I put an end to you!"

"Fuck off!" his son replied.

"His foul mouth probably woke you up. Good thing too. I was starting to worry."

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Hard to tell how long you were out at Trevor's, but almost an entire day here," he stated. "How you holding up?"

"I feel like shit," she complained, holding her throbbing head. The crook of her elbow itched.

"Take a seat. I think I've got something that'll help," he hurried for the kitchen. She glanced around the living room, full of abstract sculptures and hardcover manuals on yoga and Kama sutra. She shook her head, nestling into the all-white couch. An old, black and white film was playing out on the projector screen. The audio wasn't in English. Michael re-entered the room with a cup of green juice in his hand. She was hesitant to reach for the beverage he offered.

"What? It's just kale. It's pretty good."

"I know what kale is. I'll be damned," Melanie snapped.

"It's my wife," he chuckled. "She's on this new health food kick and I'm supposed to drink-"

"Michael…" she interrupted. Her eyes hurt and she was nearly starving, but she could make out in his face that something was wrong. He took her silence as his cue to speak.

"I think, uh… I think my wife is having an affair," he stated, placing the kale juice on the table. "She's been out since I brought you here yesterday. She won't answer any of my calls."

"That's no reason to assume the worst?" she tried.

"No, I mean… She's done this before. That time, she came home and flat out told me she was banging her yoga instructor. I forgave her 'cause, come on, I'm a man. I've had my fair share of other women and prostitutes. But again? For her to do it again?"

An anger crept into his tone of voice and his hands shook, even after he clenched them into fists.

"You shouldn't have to see me like this. I'm supposed to be mentoring you in this shit and helping you keep your head above water. Sorry"

She shook her head and proclaimed,

"I don't get it. You have this…huge house and money and everything, but she cheats?"

"We're a destructive force. Never marry a stripper," he said with a wry chuckle. "In fact, never marry. Men and women are trouble. Especially when forced together by vow."

Michael tore his eyes away from her small, flattering frame. Damn you, Trevor Philips. Planting seeds where they didn't belong.

"Err, I called Frank earlier and told him you would be waking up soon," he quickly recovered. "He'll be here any minute to drive you home and probably formally thank you."

"Appreciate it," she responded.

"You plan on going back to work at the hospital?"

"I honestly don't know. How can I?" she asked with a shrug. "I've missed whole days while out in Blaine County. I've even got a weird tan to show for the hours spent wandering around outside to escape the dump he calls home."

Michael laughed, doubling over with his hands on his knees.

"I think I'm gonna I like you, kid," he chortled.

"Plus…things are kind of weird with Carter," she added, casting her eyes to the floorboards.

"What do you mean by 'weird'?" he asked, growing concerned.

"Last time I was at the hospital… Like, he just looks at me differently now, you know? As though he's disappointed in me or I betrayed his trust or something," she explained. He nodded slowly.

"Yeah. I know that feeling," he replied. The doorbell sounded off through the big house.

"It's open!" Michael called. The glass doors, tainted a mosaic of green, black, and maroon opened and Franklin entered the living room.

"How you doing, pal?" Michael greeted.

"Shoot, I'm good. What about yo'self?"

"Living the dream, of course."

"Ready to hit the road, Melanie?" Franklin asked.

"Ready as I'll ever be," she sighed. She started for the door as Franklin held it open.

"Hey?" Michael called, standing on the porch as she popped open the passenger door to Franklin's Buffalo. She squinted against the early afternoon sun to look at her new mentor.

"I'll be in touch," he finished before turning back inside. Franklin shook his head and started the engine as Melanie buckled herself in. He reversed through the iron gates at the end of Michael's driveway and cruised through the mansions and manors of Rockford Hills.

"Man, you really getting into it, ain't you?" he spoke up after a few stoplights. Melanie tore her tired eyes away from the variety of vehicles whizzing by.

"Into what?"

"This. The crazy bullshit that is the Los Santos fast life. You were making an honest living when you sewed me up, but now it's getting heavy. Thank you, by the way."

She shrugged a shoulder and ran a hand over her face, pressing her palms into her eyes and rotating her shoulders.

"I don't know. I just need money and now, I've got some. And for what? Doing my job as a paramedic? Then throwing a can of knockout gas?"

"Girl, we _robbed_ a bank and I got shot by the police and you sewed me up so I wouldn't get arrested. Then YOU were an aid in _another_ robbery. You know damn well that's illegal," he huffed.

"So are you here to tell me I shouldn't do it anymore? I shouldn't answer Michael's calls?" she asked.

"I wish I could tell you that, but you've already made up your mind."

"Why do you still answer him?" she snapped. He drummed one of his thumbs on the steering wheel as they waited at a red light.

"Cause I need the money. I want the money. I didn't have the prettiest life growing up and I say, it's better late than never. I've been rolling with him and Trevor for some time now. I'm basically family. You're still proving yourself. You haven't even finished…I guess I'll call it your 'initiation phase'. It's early as hell for you. You could still get out without a trace and leave this behind before it gets heavy."

"So let me see if I'm hearing this straight. Since I didn't have a rough upbringing or mommy or daddy issues like you three, I'm not allowed to be an…entrepreneur?" she hissed, growing irritated.

"I ain't say that. I just don't want yo' ass getting hurt. Do you even know what I mean when I say, it's gon' get heavy? Are you not gon' realize what I mean till you staring down the barrel of somebody's gun? Or when you gotta point a gun of your own at someone and kill 'em before they try and kill you? That's somebody's life, Mel. Shit isn't easy," he explained.

"I've seen kids die. I've seen men cry over their sisters or wives' bleeding out bodies. I've seen shit too, Franklin. I'm sorry I'm not as apathetic as you, loose cannon as Trevor, or self-centered as Michael, but I have my own way of dealing with shit," she hissed. "Cut your crap. I'm paying my own bills."

"Don't say I ain't warn you."

"I won't," she replied as he pulled in front of her apartment complex. She stared up at the multistory building.

"You getting out or-"

She turned her eyes to him, glaring.

"Well shit…" he mumbled upon seeing her fuming expression. "Get back in the car."

"Fuck you," she hissed, slamming the door and storming away.

"Ay'! Don't go nowhere mad now!" he called, following after her. She stopped on the sidewalk, struggling to use her keys through the tears in her eyes.

"Let me park. Shit, girl. What's wrong?" he asked, placing a hand on her shoulder. She shook her head, unlocking the door to her first floor apartment.

"Nothing. I'm tired," she forced out. He threw out an arm, blocking the doorway.

"Lie to me again and I'll yolk yo' tiny ass up by your shirt," he warned. She let out a choked chuckle.

"Can you just…come in?" she asked in a low voice. "I need to talk to someone. About all this."

"Did something happen?" he asked. "Cause Michael told me-"

"No. He didn't do anything. It's nothing," she cut him short.

"I was gonna say, 'cause Michael said he wanted me to watch over you for a few days. I guess to make sure you're adjusting alright and don't fly off the deep end and off yourself or some shit. I wasn't gon' do it, but seeing you like this now? Shit. I'll listen to anything," he declared. She slightly shook her head, a partial smile tugging at her lips.

"I don't understand why you're so different from the others," she mumbled to no one in particular. He sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

"Wasn't nobody really there for me to talk to when I was in your spot. Trevor's crazy ass couldn't relate and Michael's stingy ass was too busy worried 'bout himself. So am I allowed in or what? I'll sleep in my car if you don't feel safe 'round me," Franklin reassured the emotionally rattled woman.

"Sure. Come on. I'll whip up some food."


	7. Mr Clinton

_**Recruited a maid of honor and one of my bridesmaids. Currently half-dead; didn't proofread. Feel free to inform me of any grammatical errors. GOODNIGHT!**_

* * *

"Mel!"

Franklin pushed away from the couch and stretched his legs before making his way to her bedroom down the narrow hall. Frames of pictures and various certificates lined the walls. Just outside her door, a youthful Melanie was pictured with her arms around a woman who looked like an older version of herself. A man he assumed to be her father stood behind the two with his arms on their shoulders. He pressed onward and the door to her bedroom creaked open as he popped his head inside. Her bed was empty, the blankets carelessly tossed to one side. He turned on his heel and started halfway down the hall.

"Yo? You in here?" he knocked on the bathroom door. A retch responded. He knocked once more before pushing his way inside. She raised a limp hand as her stomach lurched again, emptying its scarce contents into the toilet bowl. Her entire frame shuddered before she finally relaxed and took a seat on the floor. She sighed, resting her sweaty face on the cool porcelain.

"I think I'm done," she croaked. "Nothing but stomach acid coming up now."

"I can see that," he reached over to flush the commode. "Dude named Carter just called. Said he was a friend."

"You answered my phone?" she managed to seethe.

"Ay' girl. The rate you're headed, you gonna wanna start answering every call that comes through to you. Even the restricted ones. It could be any one of us or somebody looking to save you," he informed. He wet a washcloth and pressed it to her damp forehead. Her eyes closed and she hummed.

"Well what'd Carter say?"

"He's on his way over to check on you."

She groaned again.

"Alright," she grabbed the opposite edge of the toilet seat and tried hoisting her sore frame to her knees. "You have to go."

"'preciate your concern and all, but I already told him I was your cousin who flew in from Liberty City to look over you after I found out you came down with the flu."

He grabbed her under the arms and helped her to her feet. Her eyes felt like they were vibrating in their sockets and her joints ached.

"What exactly happened out there while you were with Trevor?" he curiously inquired, watching her shuffle out of the bathroom and back into her bedroom.

"Shit. I basically got hazed."

"Hazed?" he frowned. She rifled through the drawers of her dresser, tossing articles of clothing over her shoulders and between her legs.

"He had me ripping and rolling around in the desert to prove my worth," she explained, stopping to massage a bruise on her elbow. "Guess the fumes from his meth lab and all that dirt and shit got me sick."

"I considered letting you stay with me, but it was Trevor who made the call," he explained.

"Of course it was. He scares people into making decisions."

"Nah, he don't scare me. He's just made up of this weird…like, determination you don't see often. It's almost manipulative, fo'real, but he kinda grows on you once you learn to tread lightly around him and not take everything he says directly to heart."

"Has he always been like this?" she gathered clothes into her arms and took a seat on the edge of her unkempt bed. He leaned against the wall across from her and shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans.

"The couple weeks I done worked with him, yeah. Why?"

"No specific reason," she shook her head and stalked out of the room. "I'm gonna take a shower. If Carter pops up, err, I can trust you enough not to decapitate him, right?"

"Long as he doesn't come at me first, you have nothing to worry about."

She sent Franklin a small smile before closing the bathroom door. Finally feeling alone, she stood in front of the mirror over the sink and rubbed her eyes until spots began dancing behind her eyelids. Her stomach let out a small growl, the first since she had gotten home. Her heartbeat had softened from a painful thump in her ribcage. The sweating had finally stopped. She stripped her clothes and studied the scrapes and bruises mosaicking her frame. There was even still desert sand in her thick hair. She frowned, quickly twisting the knob to let the hot water flow before she stepped beneath the stream. An involuntarily groan escaped as she stretched and shuddered. A shower never felt so good. Smacking a glob of shampoo in her palm with a smile inching over her face, she slapped the soap into dirty hair and went to work on ridding herself of the mess "Trevor Philips Country" left behind.

A mere twenty minutes had passed when she toweled dry and stepped into a pair of black leggings and pulled a white t-shirt over her head. With the shower no longer running, she could make out two voices engaged in conversation.

"Carter, hey," she greeted as she entered the living room. He stood up from the couch to wrap her in an embrace.

"It's been a while," he breathed.

"Yeah. Well… This is my cousin, Frank. Frank, this is my coworker, Carter," she introduced the two.

"Yeah. He was just telling me about y'all's incident on Grove Street. Why didn't you tell me about that?" Franklin toyed.

"I didn't want you to worry. We have to take risks in our field of work," she insisted, shooting Carter a look.

"He's family. It's his job to worry," Carter urged. "She's getting better though. She's upright and moving around."

"Uh huh," she flinched away as he pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. "I'm gonna heat up a can of soup. Who else is hungry?"

"Nah, I'm good. I gotta take my car down to the gas station 'round the corner. I'll be back. You two go 'head and catch up," Franklin sent a small wave as he exited the apartment. Carter rocked on the heels of his shoes before nodding in her direction.

"He seems nice," he spoke up, trailing behind her as she entered the kitchen.

"You know me and my family – soft shell outside, trained to go on the inside," she insisted, going to work at the stove.

"So, what have you been up to?" he questioned, pulling out a chair at the table and taking a seat.

"You mean besides nursing myself back to health?" she joked. She looked his way only to find the sternest expression on his face.

"You're telling me you've had the flu the past few weeks?" he trialed. She peeled back the tab on a cap of chicken soup and sloppily poured the mixture into the pot. Carter leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

"Your curiosity is killing me," she sighed. "And no… I haven't been in bed with the flu the past few weeks. Only this week."

"And before that?"

"Working," she bluntly replied. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and rub his face with his hands.

"Melanie…" he sighed this time. "Be careful."

She turned to look at him with a peculiar gaze.

"Be careful?" she repeated. His eyes rose to meet hers.

"I mean, it's blatantly obvious that no matter what I say is going to stop you from doing what you're doing, and my only other option is to tell someone about it…"

She tensed at the words.

"…but that would get me killed. So just, be careful," he finished. She nodded once, swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat and turned back to the stove.

"Can I ask you a question though?" he pressed.

"Sure."

"Whatever you're doing, what're you getting out of it?"

"Money," she shrugged a shoulder, stirring the contents of the pot.

"That's it?"

She didn't answer, fighting the burn of tears behind her eyelids. That was it. Perhaps she and the men would grow to be friends, but right now all she had going for her was the money. It she was okay with it.

The chair squeaked against the linoleum as he rose to his feet.

"Everyone misses you at the hospital. I'll see you," he told her on his way out of the room. The front door clicked shut a few seconds later and she let herself blink, freeing the tears blurring her vision.

"Ay' Mel! I'm back!"

She let out a shaky breath and quickly wiped at her face as Franklin stopped in the kitchen doorway.

"He leaving already? I thought maybe y'all… What's wrong?"

"This is so fucking hard," she whimpered. She quickly turned off the stovetop then poured the soup into a glass bowl and sat down at the table.

"What happened?" he took a seat beside her.

"I'm tired," she shook her head. "No, I'm sick. Real sick and tired."

"Mel, it ain't that bad. Look at me," he bore his brown eyes into hers. "Starting is always the hard part. Didn't I warn you?"

"Oh, shut up," she whined, wiping her face again. He glanced down at his wrist.

"You can leave if you want. I don't wanna hog you from your life," she explained.

"It's cool. I just got something to show you in a few hours, help you take your mind off things for a bit."

* * *

"Is this legal?"

"Not exactly."

"So what happens if you get caught?"

A smile crept over Franklin's face.

"LSPD top out at about ninety to one-hundred and ten miles per hour. Maybe even one-fifteen if any of them had the balls to push it, but me, my boy Hao and the other drivers are always sitting on a few tanks of nitrous. And driving? Girl, I could do it with my eyes closed."

"Please, don't."

He laughed, watching her wide eyes illuminate with the passing streetlights.

"What's the fastest you ever drove?" she questioned, trying to preoccupy her mind.

"Probably like two-thirty," he nonchalantly answered. She gawked at the man behind the steering wheel, tightening her grip around her seatbelt.

"I do this thing… Uh, you'll see," he claimed.

"I'm not sure if I want to. Why're we doing this again?"

"Because you need to forget about everything that's been going on before you blow a gasket. That's why."

"We can't like…get drunk or go see a movie?"

"I'm telling you, this is much better. I been doing this for years. I'm one of the best. I'll even teach you how to be like me if you're interested," he laughed.

"I'm having enough trouble being Melanie Cutlass right now," she griped. A grin crept over his face as he rounded a corner in West Vinewood and was met by two lines of cars.

"'bout time!" a man declared, poking his head out from the car beside theirs.

"I couldn't let you take a win too easily, Hao," Franklin exclaimed with a wink.

"Are we ready?" a woman jeered as she sauntered between the rows of cars. Franklin revved the engine of his modified Buffalo and turned up the Flylo FM hit spilling through the speakers.

"Wait, how do you know where to go?"

"It's just straight down Marlowe Drive tonight and Marlowe Drive stretches on for a while. Once we cross the intersection, we hit a right and the first car past the bar in Vinewood wins. From there, we pay up at the lot across the street then split up," he explained.

"What about the traffic?" she asked. "If this was supposed to be a de-stressor then-"

"Ready…" a woman called from the sidelines.

"Get set…" another announced, opposite her. The woman standing in the middle of the road made eye contact with every driver before she dropped the green flag in her hand. Tires screeched as rubber burned against pavement. Franklin footed the gas pedal and the engine purred as he took off with the other. Melanie pressed back against the seat and grit her teeth.

"F-u-u-u-uck," she groaned.

"I got it," he reassured.

"You're gonna crash…" she breathed. His bumper danced mere centimeters from the Comet in front of him and the Comet was mere centimeters from the Coquette in front of it. He jerked the wheel to the left, squeezing between the Comet and a Feltzer, gaining two places.

"See you later!" he called to no one in particular. Amazed by his enthusiasm, she found herself chuckling nervously.

"Look," he nodded to her right. She turned and watched the skyline of the city as the group of racers sped along the road outlining North Vinewood. Los Santos glistened and gleamed below the night sky.

"It's not a bad place all the time," he informed through tight lips. She turned back to the round in time to see him veer back into his lane of traffic as the horn of an oncoming Albany Alpha sounded off.

"That was close," he muttered.

"Was it?" she gasped. "Frank, watch out!"

His smile dropped and his eyes narrowed as he approached a Dachshund bus from behind. An Enus Super Diamond approached in the opposite lane. Before she could even brace her frame in the seat, Franklin had shifted gears and veered onto the shoulder of the road. The car bounced against the dirt, the rear tires kicking up brown clouds.

"Got it," he gushed, sitting up and shaking his head clear. Two race cars scraped alongside one another behind him, one of the drivers crashing through a wooden fence before spinning out onto the road in front of the Super Diamond.

"How did you…"

"Don't ask," he replied. She looked ahead then ducked to look out of the rear window.

"How we doing?" he asked, eyes on the road.

"I think you're in first," she answered.

"I told you I knew what I was doing," he remarked before turning off where Marlowe Drive ended and effortlessly weaving down and out of the homes of Vinewood Hills. The Buffalo's engine purred as he finally stepped off of the gas and eased the vehicle into the lot where people were cheering and waving wads of cash. He pulled into a parking lot and rolled down his window.

"Way to go Frank," one of the women congratulated as she sauntered past. Franklin bit his bottom lip and grinned.

"You got lucky!" came Hao's voice. He pulled up beside Franklin and tossed a few green bills through the window before pulling away. Melanie sat back in her seat and watched as the other drivers drove past, handing over what they owed the winner.

"One time!" a single voice cried out. The crowd quickly dispersed. Franklin turned the engine over and hurried from the lot.

"One time?" Melanie repeated.

"Five-o. Pigs. The police," he explained, pulling into an alley, cutting the engine, and switching off all the lights. A screaming whir of blue and red flashing lights hurried past.

"This is what you do?" she whispered, slumped low in the seat.

"It's what I _did_ , before Michael and Trevor came along. Mike watches movies and puts up with his family. Trevor cooks meth. You gotta keep a hobby to stay right side up. I make time for this, and every now and then I tow a car or two for a friend."

"It's fun," she cracked a smile, feeling the best she had in days.

"I told you," he repeated. He waited for the sound of the sirens to disappear before he restarted the engine.

"I'mma drop you off at the crib then take this money to the bank. You gonna be alright by yourself for a lil bit?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "I'm good."


	8. Anger Management

_**It's been raining nonstop for five days straight. I couldn't even see the supermoon lunar eclipse last night. I hate when the seasons change. Also, any of you have a favorite video game? I finally finished The Last of Us last night and I didn't think I'd get emotionally invested into any other video game besides GTA, but holy hell. Cried like a baby. I recommend you play it or look it up if you haven't. :)**_

* * *

Franklin's car was parked in the lot and he hated it. He hated that he recognized Franklin's car and he hated that he didn't know why it was parked inside the car park adjacent to Melanie's apartment complex. Why the fuck was he here? Was he staking out her place? Was he inside her apartment? Talking to her? Looking at her? Touching her?

"Fuck OFF, Frank!" Trevor growled, jerking the steering wheel and parking his truck right along Franklin's ice-white streetcar. Trevor patted Melanie's cell phone tucked into the back pocket of his dirty denims and violently shook his head.

"I swear..." he muttered angrily as he marched across the street, fists tight. A hundred different scenarios ran through his nonstop mind. Just as he approached the door to her apartment, he stopped himself. He drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out. Once, twice. His fists clenched by his sides before he relaxed his shoulders and pressed the button by the doorframe. The sound of the buzzer alarming was faintly audible through her front door.

He pressed it again, impatient. Would Melanie answer? What if Franklin did? What if they both did, arms wrapped around one another and a look of elated ecstasy plastered on both their faces… Oh, what the hell? He gasped and turned away.

"T?"

Franklin's voice froze the man mid-stride as he started away.

"Hey, dude. What's up? What you doing here?" Franklin asked, poking his head out of the crack in the door.

"I could ask you the same," Trevor responded, venom slipping into his gravelly voice. Franklin pursed his lips, fully exiting the apartment and closing the door behind him.

"Where's Mel?"

"In there, sleep."

" _Sleep_?" Trevor echoed. "So my original question stands."

"Mike asked me to pick her up from his place a few days ago. Said he wanted me to keep an eye on her," Franklin explained.

"What for?" Trevor inquired, fidgeting to hide the fire in his eyes.

"I don't know. He didn't say, but she got sick fucking 'round with you out there. Fever and shit broke yesterday."

"Uh huh," Trevor nodded. Her body was detoxing the drugs. He wanted to see her. It had been almost three days and he hoped she wouldn't be angry with him.

"So what d'you want?"

"She forgot her phone," he answered as he withdrew the device from his pocket and waved it around.

"She'll appreciate that. I'll give it to her," Franklin extended an open palm.

"No, let me," Trevor insisted through his teeth.

"Dude. She's asleep," Franklin sternly claimed again. He was hesitant in doing so, but he handed over her phone with a grimace.

"Why're you here? If she's sick, can't she take care of herself? She's a grown woman, a paramedic. She seems to know what she's doing. You just gonna run around in Michael's shadow and do everything he tells you to do? Hm? Like the son he never wanted? Huh? Well watch out 'cause blood or not, he'll cross you. He always manages," Trevor snapped before storming away.

"T! Aye, Trevor! What's wrong wit'chu?"

Trevor ignored Franklin's voice and ventured back to his beat-up truck. He slammed the rusty door shut behind him and started the engine. His teeth grit against each other. Halfway through the city, he finally turned down the obnoxiously satisfying rock radio belting through the speakers and picked up his cracked cell phone to make a call.

"Wade!" he barked into the receiver. Wade was one of his assistants. He wanted to call Nervous Ron but it was Saturday and Saturdays were days Ron spent hiding out in his camper within the rolling county hills, listening to chatter on his radio to help Trevor with work and take some time off himself from the maniac.

"Wade!" Trevor hissed again.

"Huh?" he finally answered. Wade was a grown man with the mind of a child. Trevor usually kept him doped up on methamphetamine to keep him malleable to his needs. It was probably rotting his brain - the drugs, and the fact he was one of those got damned Juggalos who spent all day painting his pierced up face and listening to shit rap music.

"You sound angry, Trevor. What's the matter?" Wade's whiny voice asked.

"I _am_ angry! Where's The Lost? You seen any of 'em?"

"A couple bikes drove past the trailer not long ago, but I… I don't think they meant nothing by it. Why? Are you gonna do something? Can I come with?" Wade asked.

"I always do something. Get my gun ready," the man seethed. He pressed heavier onto the gas pedal as he turned onto the freeway. The long ride back to Sandy Shores from anywhere in Los Santos usually took almost a half hour, on a good day. Throw in five o'clock traffic or a police chase cutting you off and you were looking at well over an hour drive.

Trevor buzzed in and out of traffic, skipping over the dotted yellow line and using the shoulder to pass people who were already traveling at the legal sixty miles per hour. He was feeling unstable again. Having gotten a little used to the odd unity and rationale the new woman brought to the group of men, her current situation felt wrong to him. He almost felt sick or apologetic. He shouted and punched the horn in the center of the wheel.

Glancing at his eyes in the rear view mirror, he let out a hysterical chuckle. He was tired, but he didn't sleep when there were things to be done. Usually, he worked when he wasn't busy doing jobs with Michael and Franklin. He owned a hangar in Sandy Shores and another, McKenzie Airfield, opposite the Alamo Sea. From there, he ran an arms trade business. A crop duster flew dangerously low over the freeway ahead and he glared as it disappeared over the mountains. There were too many competitors in the area and nothing he could do about it. At least, not at the moment.

The big, thick tires kicked up red dirt as he came to an abrupt halt in front of his rundown trailer.

"Wade!" he shouted, turning the radio up again then blowing the horn. "Wade! WADE!"

"C-Coming, Trevor!" the door of the trailer neighboring his own swung open and out ran Wade. His dirty blond deadlocks bobbed in the air as he struggled with running to the waiting vehicle. Why didn't he just buy a belt? It would keep his pants from slipping down his emaciated frame. In tow, he brought an AK-47, fit with an advanced scope and an extended magazine. Trevor's fingers itched as it came into his view.

"Here you go. I cleaned it for you!" Wade proudly announced.

"Shut up and get in!" Trevor demanded.

"Where're we going?" Wade asked, hopping into the bed of the truck.

"Stab City. I need to talk with some people," he responded over his shoulder.

"What you need your gun to talk for?" the simpler minded man asked. Aggravated, Trevor tapped the brake for no good reason. Wade lurched forward in the bed of the old truck, bumping his head on the rail of the roll cage.

"Ouch!"

"You were talking too much," Trevor grumbled. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Wade replied, rubbing his reddening forehead. "So what're you gonna talk about when you get to Stab City? The weather is nice, so I guess you could talk about that."

Trevor anxiously drummed a thumb against the wheel.

"Things, Wade. Just things that need to be addressed," he answered. Finally, a cul-de-sac comprised of old trailers came into view as he sped over a bridge, gaining air beneath his tires. He brought the vehicle to a halt in the middle of the road leading into the neighborhood.

"HellooOOOooO!" he howled, shooting several rounds into the air.

"Trevor, I thought you said you was just gonna-"

"Wade, shut your mouth and hand me a gotdamned magazine!" he demanded.

"Shit! It's Philips! Get the guns!"

The rough voices calling him out made him grin. He snatched away the magazine Wade was offering and stuffed it into the back pocket of his pants.

"Shut up and stay here," he grunted, marching away from the truck. A bullet whizzed by his ear. His boots kicked up dust as he marched about.

"You fuckers! I'm sick of your shit!" he shouted, squeezing round after round from his rifle.

"We don't know what you're talking about, Philips!" a voice called from behind a building. With that, Trevor carefully took aim at a large gas tank perched alongside a trailer. The entire container exploded on impact, destroying the home and sending flaming debris this way and that.

"You know what I'm talking about! Interfering with my arms trading! I've got eyes everywhere!" he explained.

"You know those guns are up for grabs for anyone in the area! We had an agreement! You stay outta Los Santos, you can have everything in Blaine County!" a meth head declared.

"Well I'm breaching the contract!" he howled. With Michael back in his life, Franklin to teach and Melanie helping the crew after their first job went down, he had more than enough reasons to visit the city and he wasn't going to let a couple doped up biker punks give him a hard time about it.

"I'll go anywhere I please," he calmly stated to himself. One man, bald and clad in chains over a black leather jacket poked his head around the corner of a trailer. Trevor squinted down his iron sights and squeezed the trigger twice. The damage rocked the man's frame as the first bullet exited through the back of his skull and the other through the side of his neck. A woman screamed. The bald one's name was Johnny and he ran everything if it regarded the gang. Trevor didn't care for him. He had fucked his girlfriend almost half a dozen times before Johnny even confronted him about it. You could say this was his revenge. He hated unnecessary confrontations.

"Johnny! The sonofabitch shot Johnny!"

With that, the gunshots seemed to falter. He ran to take an abandoned pickup truck for cover. He dragged on ragged breaths through his nose. Bullets ricocheted off the metal. Empty ammunition tinkled against the sandy pavement. Trevor's finger was beginning to throb from squeezing the trigger, but he was a one man army. Everyone usually quit long before he did and that's because, he never quit ever in his life. Just as he shoved the second magazine into the well of his assault rifle, he noted the stragglers of the gang fleeing toward the Alamo Sea.

"Where're you going? We ain't done!" he shouted, stepping out from the cover.

"Johnny!" a woman bawled, kneeling over his body.

"We'll kill you next time, Philips!" a Lost member exclaimed as he ran away. Trevor licked his lips and looked down his sights at the man before planting a single bullet in the middle of his back. He slowed before dropping to the dirt. Content with his work, Trevor spun on his heel and marched back to his truck. Wade was curled into a ball in the back.

"Y-You done talking?" he asked as Trevor took his seat.

"I think we reached an understanding," Trevor calmly stated. He placed the warm gun in the passenger seat and stared through the windshield. As usual, he had to wait for his heart rate to slow. He was never calm. Even now, he could almost feel the blood impossibly boiling in his arteries. Wiping sweat from his brow, he turned on the radio and sat back in the seat. It was a little after noon. Ron had a talk show in which he discussed conspiracy theories and Trevor always called once to start a cheeky conversation that would gain his business partner more listeners and callers.

"Hey, you're bleeding," Wade claimed.

"What?"

Sure enough, a steady stream of blood had been making its way down from his left shoulder. He tore the rest of the sleeve to get a better look at the wound. He wouldn't call Melanie. He didn't want to, no matter how bad it was. She would still be pissed anyway. It was just a gash. A big gash through the tattoo he had gotten in memory of Michael. He laughed for two reasons: one, Michael turned out to not even be dead and two, the Lost were as good at shooting as they were at cooking meth – hence making him the best in the county at both. He'd fix himself up. Now that he was calming down, the pain was slowly seeping into his brain and he had to put an end to it before it became intolerable.

* * *

"Should I help?"

"Get the fuck out of my face," Trevor growled. He narrowed his amber eyes at Wade and sent the man running down the road. Trevor barreled into his trailer and switched on the radio.

"I'm not saying Bigfoot isn't real, but I ain't never seen him..." he heard Ron claim.

"Cause you've never been outside the county limits, you fucking square," Trevor grumbled. He popped open a beer and took a swig before moving on to a glass of whiskey. As his body warmed against the alcohol diluting his blood, he pulled his stained shirt over his head and dampened it with water from the bathroom sink. As he was dabbing at the wound, he caught sight of himself in the broken mirror.

Did he always look this tired? He sniffed and cut his eyes at the various scars adorning his tough, sinewy frame. His ruined tattoo burned. He suppressed a growl as he recalled the shitty past he could never forget. There was a keloid scar up the left of his abdomen from where he had been tossed from his truck in a rollover accident. Knife fights, gun fights, fists fights, leaps from trains and dirt bikes - he'd done it all. He looked back down at his arm, which probably needed stitches. He shook the thought from his head. He'd be fine without the bandages and sympathy that came with them. He always was.

"...but let's take some callers..."

Trevor yanked his phone from his pocket and dialed Ron's hotline.

"Hello caller number one," Ron greeted. His voice quietly echoed from the radio in the other room. Trevor put the call on speaker and sat the phone on the counter of the sink.

"Trevor here. Yeah, I dunno 'bout Bigfoot," he started. He reached into the cabinet beneath the sink and fetched a bottle of rubbing alcohol he had snagged from the ambulance.

"I'm in these mountains for days at a time. I hunt elk and the occasional random, lonely hiker," he added a chuckle to ease other listeners, despite everyone already knowing his volatile reputation. "I've never seen nothing resembling a 'Bigfoot', but...if I did, I'd probably leave him be."

"What? You? Leave something be?" Ron asked with a laugh. Trevor nodded aggressively and broke the seal on the bottle. He poured the alcohol over his hands and rubbed them together, wincing as the tiny cuts along his fingers and knuckles stung. His fingers clenched tightly together.

"Yeah, I'd leave him alone. He's probably looking for some gotdamned peace and quiet. The city of Los Santos is loud enough and Blaine County ain't even quiet enough for my liking. So maybe this 'Bigfoot' character just wants some solitude away from monsters like us."

Did he just refer to himself as a monster? Trevor quickly poured alcohol onto the cloth of the wet shirt and slapped it against the gash. His skin crawled and burned. He stomped a foot against the strange feeling.

"Hold on, Trevor. I've got another caller," Ron claimed. With that, he hung up.

"Are you saying the Bigfoot is just a hairy guy in the woods who wants some alone time? Cause I think he could as well be hunted like anything else out there," the second caller explained with such a deep backwoods accent, Trevor had to stop listening. A pounding headache was forming behind his ears. He pulled the shirt from his arm. A blotch of bright red blood greeted him. He opened the medicine cabinet and withdrew a roll of gauze. Why the fuck did he even have half these things? Why the fuck was he even doing what he was doing now? He caught sight of himself in the mirror again and left the bathroom. He leaned his injured arm against the kitchen counter.

"So if Bigfoot came into your house and ate your kids…"

"What if there's a Missus Bigfoot? And they got a kid or somethin'? Or they kidnap unsuspectin' hitchhikers?"

The conversations and calls were flowing now. He pat the gauze down over the cut and tried wrapping his arm. The cover repeatedly crept forward, abandoning his tricep and smudging crimson on his skin. He tucked the tail end under his arm pit and unraveled the rest around his bicep a few times. As he reached the end of the short roll, he realized he should've bandaged it first. The gauze was already blotting pink with blood. Other people made caring for themselves always look easy. He swiped a clothes pin off a bag of chips and used it to secure the end. This would fucking do.


	9. Rock-a-bye Balla Baby

Franklin switched from high beams to low as an oncoming car started in their direction. Clearing his throat, he sat up straighter in the driver's seat and shot a glance in Melanie's direction. She sat in the passenger's seat, arms folded across her chest and eyes cast longingly out of the tinted window.

"An hour on the road and you haven't said a word. You wanna tell me what's up?" he finally questioned.

"It's nothing," she replied with a shrug.

"Ain't we friends, Mel?"

"Franklin. Please don't pry. Just focus on the road and whatever it is you have to do," she insisted. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel before asking,

"What is wrong?"

"Nothing. Damn. I just…never know what the next move is. It's exhausting and sometimes I wonder why the hell I even keep hanging out with you guys," she snapped.

He glanced her way then tooted up his lips.

"We're bad, but I didn't think we were _that_ bad."

She shook her head back and forth.

"Look. It's a lot to take in at first. I told you that. The stacks of money hitting your bank account. How narrowly you escape the police, over and over. The feeling everything gives you. Don't let it take you over. I said you gotta get a hobby or it'll all eat you up. Trust me. I was the 'kid' not long ago. Michael recruited me into this world after my illegitimate ass boss sent me to repossess his son's car. His old ass was laying duck in the backseat."

"And Trevor?"

"I don't know," he sucked his teeth. "They were kinda just together one day and he got shit done, so I rolled with it. I think they've been doing shit together for a long time. I get a love-hate vibe from it, but you gotta stop thinking about that dude. He's crazy and he'll make you that way if you let him."

Her phone vibrated in her jacket's pocket. Without checking the screen, she sighed into the receiver,

"Hello?"

"Hey…" Trevor's gruff voice quietly greeted. He scratched at his right temple, surprised she'd even answered.

"What do you want?"

His breath faltered for a moment.

"Uh, we should talk."

"I'm working with Franklin right now. I'll call you later."

"Of course you are," he grunted, kicking at a pebble on his porch. She drew in a deep breath, fighting the urge to grow as agitated as him. Franklin pulled into the gas station along the freeway.

"What's that supposed to mean? 'Of course you are'?" she questioned.

"Nothing, doc. I'll stop by your place and wait."

"Do you need help? A bandage? Sutures?"

"No?" he glanced down at his frame.

"Then no. I'll call you when I have the time," she insisted, hanging up before he could say anything else. She didn't want any more distractions. Franklin parked on the edge of the lot and turned to her.

"Was that him?"

"Mind your business," she snapped.

"Sheesh. Well the car is right there," he pointed to the unattended, modified Benefactor Feltzer sitting on the edge of the lot. "I'll pick the lock and once I pop the door, you peel out, a'ight?"

"What if you don't unlock it before the chick comes out of the store?"

"I will. You just worry about being good to my wheels."

"I'm not you speeding down Marlowe Drive, but I can drive."

He grinned before he slipped from his vehicle and loped over to the sports car. She scurried around his car, slid into the driver's seat, and restarted the engine. He pulled a multi-tool from the pocket of his baggy jeans and picked through a few gadgets. His best friend, Lamar, had bought him the damned thing almost a decade ago and he was still getting used to using it, having had to figure out its various uses on his own.

"Come on Franklin," Melanie chimed, fastening her seatbelt over her chest and lap. He fidgeted with the door, occasionally glancing over his shoulder and shaking his head. He bit his bottom lip, sliding one tool into the key hole and lifting the door handle. Melanie shot the clock in the dashboard a squint as the numbers flashed eight in the evening. Half the sun hung low over the San Andreas coast.

Finally, the door gave way and Franklin took a step back as it swung open. The headlights flashed and a blaring theft alarm started up. Quickly, he kicked out a piece of hardened rubber beneath the steering wheel and went to work on the wires.

"Shit!" Melanie shrieked at the noise. She switched from Park to Drive and peeled from the parking lot, heart racing. Several other cars blew their horns as she cut them off. Her phone rang and she reached over into the passenger seat to snatch it up.

"Hello?"

"I got the car, but I need you to chill out," Franklin's voice crackled from the other end.

"What do you mean?"

"You got a tail. I seen 'em pull out after you did. Two black vans," he claimed. She checked the mirrors.

"I see them. What do I do?"

"Just keep driving. There's a pistol under the seat if they-"

"Franklin? I can't shoot."

"I'm taking this car in the opposite direction. It gets a single scratch and I'm done for. Call Trevor," he suggested.

"I am not calling Trevor," she growled, voice wavering.

"Man, I know you don't wanna fuck with him after hazing you, but Mike is with his shrink. Either use the gun or-"

"Fine! Okay. Fuck," she hissed as she hung up. She pulled up the contact list and clicked the third man's name. The line rang once…twice…three times. She glanced in the mirror to find the vans only a couple car lengths away.

"Trevor Philips Industries."

"I need help. I'm in Franklin's car and I'm being followed."

He jumped to his feet and bounded off the porch without a second thought.

"Where're you?"

"Coming down by the beach on the GOH," she answered.

"Keep straight, take Del Perro Freeway north. I'm leaving Sandy Shores now. I'll meet you halfway," he explained, starting his truck.

"Okay," she nodded.

"Mel?"

"What?"

"Don't let them get close."

He hung up, tires kicking up dirt as he sped away from his dusty trailer.

"Fucking fuck," he muttered as he wove through the dirt roads. Why? He didn't skip a beat when it came down to it. He didn't even think about drugs when she was around. What the fuck? He grit his teeth and turned Rebel Radio up loud enough to echo through the quiet desert.

Three cars sat between Melanie and her pursuers when she was caught by a red light. She fidgeted in the seat. The light turned green and she took the sea green-lit tunnel just beneath the city. Both of the vans switched their headlights off and split into the lanes on either side of the car.

"Fuck," she squeaked, fingers tightening around the wheel as she gave the car more gas. The engine purred as she tailgated the Oldsmobile in front of her. The late evening traffic stopped her from putting distance between her and the pursuers. The four lanes eventually gave way to the open, three-lane freeway where the speed increased. The road curved left. Her eyes darted to all three mirrors. When she refocused on the road, the tail end of one of the vans suddenly braked in front of her. Franklin's front fender crunched against the reinforced metal of the van's bumper. The second van pulled alongside her right side. Its windows began to roll down. She gasped and stomped on the brake just as a spray of bullets rained into the furthest lane. A woman screamed and tires screeched. Both vans braked. Melanie gassed the car, causing the tires to burn before she veered into the furthest right lane and sped away.

A station wagon scraped against her left side and the tinted window shattered into her lap. Her heart beat hurt in her chest as she wove in and out of traffic. Franklin wouldn't be happy about his car, but she couldn't focus on that matter. Opposite the median, a rusty red truck clunked past with high beams shining from the roof. Trevor tapped the brake pedal and his thick tires cried out in response. She watched in the rearview mirror as he knocked over several traffic cones with the grille as he pulled off an illegal U-turn over the double yellow lines. One of the vans rear-ended the Buffalo and she fearfully shrieked against the tears in her eyes.

More gunshots rang out. It seemed all the traffic had sped up. Her phone rang.

"Median's gonna give way on your left. Across traffic is a dirt road. Get your ass on it," Trevor calmly explained, brow furrowed. Oncoming traffic on the other side seemed to zoom by at five-hundred miles per hour. Her foot got heavier on the gas. Behind her, one of the vans reduced speed, its two rear tires flattened by bullets. She angled the steering wheel slightly and closed her eyes as she squeezed through the gap in the cones. An oncoming car clipped her tail end just as she cleared both lanes. Franklin's car spun once before flipping over.

The starry night sky filled her eyes then the ground, then the sky again. She pressed her palms against the roof, locking her elbows and forcing herself deeper into the seat. The car settled on its tires again, smoke sizzling and billowing from beneath the hood. Another vehicle collided with her from behind again. Dazed and disoriented, she brought down her hands.

The sound of another vehicle sped up the dirt road. Several car doors opened. Trevor reached underneath his seat and wielded a sawn off shotgun.

"Looking for someone, ass wipe?" his voice demanded. Several heavy rounds of weapons fire went off. Melanie put her hands on her head as a window behind her shattered.

She jumped when Trevor opened the driver's door and placed a hand on her arm. After yanking off her seatbelt, she sprang from the car and began running down the dirt road. Her hands shook. Her knees wobbled. He threw two arms around her.

"Fucking quit!" Trevor insisted. She fought until he gripped her shoulders and shook her hard. Her eyes were wide and she was bleeding from somewhere in her scalp.

"I thought I was gonna die in that car," she whispered. He let out a wicked laugh.

"Mm, not while I'm around."

"Who were they?" she quickly asked. "Do you know?"

"Judging by their décor, I'll say some Balla gangbangers. Frank must have problems," he nonchalantly answered. The sound of her phone ringing in the wreckage was a reminder that she was indeed still alive. Trevor fetched it. Melanie stood on the side of the road, her eyes on the sawn-off clenched in his left hand. He held it like it was a part of him. She turned her eyes down the road. The bodies of three men clad in purple lie in the dirt.

"T, here. Yeah, I got her. Look man, you got some Balla issues you failed to disclose? Frank… We're a team. We gotta keep each other in the know, brother... We'll handle that fucker in time. Look, you're gonna need a tow truck out here. No, I can't move it, idiot… Yeah, whatever. Fuck you."

He cautiously turned to Melanie.

"You wanna huff it back to Los Santos, or…?"

She didn't acknowledge his question, starting a slow walk back toward the freeway. He sighed, climbed into his busted truck, and pulled a U-turn in her direction. He slowly cruised alongside her for a few seconds until she spoke.

"I'm fine. I'll walk."

"All the way home?"

"Fuck you, Trevor."

"Alright," he nodded. "I deserved that."

The two traveled a few more feet in silence, until he revved the engine, to which she sucked her teeth in response.

"Could you drop me off at my house?" she requested, eyes focused on the freeway yards away.

"Get in."

The ride to her apartment in the middle of Los Santos was deafeningly silent.

"Thanks," she finally let out, climbing from the truck and starting for the door.

"I didn't mean to fuck up so badly."

"It could've been worse," she muttered.

"That doesn't make me feel any better about it," he claimed. She stopped in her tracks with her keys in hand as he spoke again.

"I kind of like you, kid," he tried, exiting his truck. "And I was hoping maybe you could mean something to me."

"No. I won't, Trevor," she responded. "Because you are a type of volatile that keeps either of us from knowing what's going to happen next."

"I don't care about that. Frankly, that's scaring the shit out of me. I gotta say something, because I don't know if this is a normal thing or if I'm finally losing my mind," he commented with a scratch of his chin. "When I think about you, which happens a lot, or spend time around you… I feel a stability."

"And you think I'm gonna be stable much longer after what happened?" she asked.

"But I saved you-"

"I don't mean _just_ that," she hinted. His face fell as he leaned back against the bars on the front of his truck.

"That might've been wrong of me and I'm, err- sorry. I don't know what else to say."

"Then don't say anything," she stated.

"I got one question," he stood up straighter. Her arms crossed over her chest.

"What's up with you and Frank? Is he…?" he bit his lip and gave the air in front of him a deep pelvic thrust.

"God, no."

"Good… I thought I'd have to stab him," Trevor started round the truck and popped open the door. She was speaking to him. That was enough for the moment.

"You're not stabbing Franklin…" she shook her head. "Get a grip, T."

"Promise me you'll keep me in consideration when you make decisions. I don't like being left in the dark."

"Will do, Trev," she sighed, unlocking the door leading into her apartment. Even after the door closed behind her, he stood alongside his vehicle for a moment.

"Trev," he repeated. "Fuckin' Trev."


	10. What's Up, Doc?

"Things are getting a little out of hand, doc."

"Elaborate, Michael," Dr. Friedlander suggested. Michael's eyes shifted away from his therapist and he let out a shallow sigh.

"Good news first. Well, I guess it's good. I've expanded business partners and she's good at what she does, but I can't help worry-"

" _She_? Does Mrs. De Santa know?" Dr. Friedlander questioned with a frown.

"Yeah, but it isn't anything like that. I have a feeling the kid is already accounted for, sort of."

"By whom?"

"Ah. You're not gonna believe this, but Trevor, actually."

"Isn't he the one who is a little…" the man frowned and twirled a finger against his temple, mimicking the offset of his patient's best friend.

"He likes her. He won't admit to me, anyone, hell maybe not even himself, but I know he does. Anyway, that isn't any of my business… I've got my own family issues. I think Amanda is having another affair."

With that, Dr. Friedlander immediately appeared intrigued.

"With whom?" he asked, taking down the pen from behind his ear.

"I don't know. Her yoga instructor? The tennis coach? Both Zumba teachers? Probably all of the above, and then some."

"And how have you been, sexually?"

"I've been a good boy recently," he answered, to which Dr. Friedlander raised an eyebrow. "Been keeping to myself. I dunno how much longer I can hold it in, but I'm trying."

"That's all we can do, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

The room was silent between the both of them. Michael stood and turned to gaze out of the wide window overlooking the illuminated pier staggering into the vast Pacific Ocean.

"I just thought I'd be retiring soon, but not at this rate," he sighed. "I'll have to…maim whoever she's messing around with and now Melanie is learning the ropes from me and Franklin, all the while I have to keep her safe from Trevor. I just don't know anymore."

"Well Michael, you are a sociopath. Your friends are sociopaths and it takes a lot to contain all…what is it, four of you now? Not to mention, you are all in denial. Are you aware?"

"Sure?"

Dr. Friedlander looked up from the notepad in his lap with pursed lips.

"When was the last time you were happy?"

"I don't know. Guess it was when I was on those meds," Michael answered with a shrug. "And I don't want to ever do that again. The side effects weren't worth it. Sleeping at dinner, throwing up during tennis. I couldn't get my dick hard to save my life."

"Uh huh. In all honesty, we might've overlooked the correct dosage. Look at that. We appear to be out of time," the therapist spoke up. Michael turned and started for the door.

"I don't think this shit is working for me," he grumbled.

"Mm. Don't quit. Your next session could be your breakthrough session. Have a good evening, Michael."

Just as he exited the office, his cell phone rang in his pocket.

"Yeah?"

"Daddy! I need your help."

He groaned. The gray and black oxfords on his feet sounded off as he descended the metal staircase leaving Isiah Friedlander's condominium.

"What's wrong, Trace?"

"I think I have an online stalker. Except in real life. I mean, he's on my LifeInvader and Bleeter all the time, but I can see him watching me from across the street. Daddy, please come and get me," his twenty-one year old daughter pitifully begged. He pressed a button on his ring of keys to unlock his car.

"Daddy's busy right now, Tracey," he finally decided as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I knew you didn't care. Mom was right! Jimmy was too and that never happens! You hate us and you don't care what happens to us. I hate you. I hate you!"

The line disconnected as he sat down in the driver's seat. His phone rang again.

"What?" he snapped.

"Is that how you greet your best friend?" Trevor's voice barked. "Your phone off or something? You called earlier, but when I try to be a decent person and return the favor, I get a fucking machine. What'd you want?"

"I'm headed to the Murrieta Oil Field. I need you and Frank there. I'll call Mel," Michael explained. Trevor seemed to growl.

"No, I'll call her."

"What's with this defensiveness? Since when does it matter who calls who?" Michael asked. "You don't care about anything. Don't you think you should take a couple steps back and look at yourself or what happened? She probably wants nothing to do with you."

"Shut UP. I had the situation under control."

"Control my ass. You fuck up like that again and there will be serious consequences, T."

"Keep threatening me and you'll see some real consequences," Trevor hissed through his teeth. Michael sat back in the driver's seat.

"Pal, now you and I both know we don't need to go there. I know as well as you-"

"Mmm. What would you know about anything? I know my meth. Do you know your marriage? Prick!" Trevor declared before hanging up. Michael chuckled, shook his head and started his car.


	11. Business Partners

**_I hope everyone who found themselves in the path of Hurricane Joaquin are safe and sound. Dealt with nonstop rain and occasional wind gusts here._**

* * *

"Hey! I know you," Melanie spoke up, swiftly exiting her Penumbra. She closed the space between her and the group of men standing in the middle of the junkyard. One of Trevor's eyebrows drew skyward, his jaw hanging slightly ajar as he leaned against an old port-a-potty.

"I've seen you on TV," she continued, squinting to make out the man's features against the glaring Los Santos sun.

"FIB Agent, Steve Haines," the one clad in khakis and an indigo polo extended a hand in her direction.

"Man, what the fuck?" Franklin cried out, tossing up his hands. She took a step back.

"You're working for the Feds now, huh Michael?" Trevor asked, fists clenching at his sides. "What did I miss?"

"Relax. He's with me," another man spoke up as he pushed through the door of the dusty building and stepped out to join the group.

"Good to see you still breathing and doing whatever the fuck it is you do," Michael cracked a smile. "Gentlemen and Lady, this is an old friend, Dave."

"David Norton, FIB Analyst," he properly introduced himself with a jaded scowl.

"If it's gonna be any of my business, I'd like to know what the deal with y'all is," Franklin insisted. Melanie nodded in agreement. Steve Haines brushed past Michael, Franklin, and Trevor to peer down his nose at the woman.

"I haven't seen your pretty face anywhere. Got a name? What're they paying you to stick around and follow them like a lost puppy? I'll double it. C'mon. Gimme a number," he waged.

"Don't worry about it," she sneered.

"If you're gonna be working for me, I need cooperation. Lose the attitude, princess," he grunted, plucking at her forehead. She swatted away his hand and sent Michael a glare, who scowled at the agent in return. Trevor carefully watched as the unfamiliar man stalked circles around the newest crew member.

"Enough, man. We getting some explanations or what?" Franklin butted in.

"Yeah, or what?" Dave mirrored as he uncrossed his arms. "Steve has a problem, which means I have a problem, which...by the means of Michael's agreement all those years ago: we all have a problem."

"What agreement?" Melanie piped up.

"That's a different story for a different day. Fellas, finish it up," Michael urged with a wave of his hand.

"Oh, I bet it is," Trevor added.

"Inside the FIB building, rumors are brewing at the water cooler about me being some kind of double agent. Apparently I have ties with criminals and their various illegal activities," Steve explained. No one said anything. Franklin raised his hand.

"But...those _are_ true."

"They don't need to know that!" Steve exclaimed. "I need to lose some of the heat, so you four are going in and extracting the most recent file that's come up."

"What's on it?" Michael inquired.

"Nothing," Steve quickly shot back.

"I'm not extracting shit from out of a federal building for _nothing_ ," Michael said. "Come on."

"I had a mishap last month," the FIB agent started.

"If you want it done, just tell them already," Dave ordered.

"I picked up an escort. She got her filthy fingers on my wallet and stole my identity. Not to worry, I got it back and I took care of the bitch-"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Trevor interrupted.

"No, just yours."

"Easy tiger. That'd make you my daddy," Trevor noted, winking at the man. He shuddered before continuing on with his explanation.

"I need you three… Err, four to go in and delete my entire fucking file. It's just shit show to shit show in there, nothing even remotely noteworthy in my honest opinion."

"I don't know," Franklin sighed. "It's the fucking FIB."

"You'll be compensated. Why worry now? We've had eyes on the three of you for quite a while. You don't want unnecessary information getting out, do you?" Dave persuaded. The three of them exchanged curious looks. Melanie shifted uncomfortably, now growing unsure of what type of business these men had lured her into.

"Am I being blackmailed into doing this? Cause I'll do work without the vanilla torture," Trevor grunted. Michael looked to Franklin.

"Man, fuck. I done did some wily shit with this far, so I guess this can be done too," he finally caved in.

"And what about the dame?" Steve nodded in her direction.

"I'll talk to her," Michael reassured.

"By attending this meeting she already knows too much. So she either-"

"I said, I'll talk to her," Michael interrupted Steve, his cold blue eyes dicing up the younger man's soul.

"Good," Dave said with a smile. "Good. Meet Lester Crest at his house for help with a plan. We've already sent an email his way."

"And tell him..." Steve popped open the door to his car. "No matter how much aluminum foil he sticks on his ceiling, our satellite communications are still crystal clear."

Dave sputtered on a laugh and took his place in the passenger seat.

"You never cease to amaze me," Franklin told Michael as the two FIB workers drove away. Michael chuckled dryly and pat Franklin on the back.

"Follow me," he ordered over his shoulder. Franklin started toward his newest car, a matte black Cheval Fugitive, but caught sight of Melanie's hesitation and paused.

"You coming?" he called back to her. Trevor drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel of his Bodhi, watching the two of them. She peeked up at his truck then turned to Franklin.

"Yeah," she quickly hopped into her car and let out the deep breath she had been withholding. She waited for Franklin to pull out in front of her before she started the engine. Trevor waved her onward and she took that as her cue to pull out. Trevor brought up the rear. Working with Michael was one thing. Working with Michael and the Federal Investigation Bureau was another story. He looked back at the saw mill in his rear view mirror before pulling out into traffic.

Lester didn't live a full ten minutes away, but with the thought of what could be unfolding before his very eyes, the drive seemed to drag on for Trevor. He was thinking and he hated that. He peered down the hood at the little Penumbra in front of him then at the Fugitive and the Tailgater. A dangerous game of follow the fucking leader was starting.

* * *

"You squeezed in tight? I don't want anyone getting towed," Michael spoke up. He glanced back at Trevor's terrible parking job on the narrow side street then shook his head.

"Don't worry about my parking. We ain't gonna be here long," he growled as the group approached the front door of the shabby forest green house on Amarillo Vista. Michael knocked on the door and the CCTV screwed in the corner sharply turned to examine the quartet. Franklin tried to cover Trevor's hands as he stuck up both his middle fingers. Melanie shot the warning signs plastered all over the abode a weary gaze as the front door popped open.

"Hurry up," came Lester's nasally voice from an intercom speaker to the left of them.

"What you got going for us?" Michael greeted, rubbing his hands together as they all waddled into the cluttered home. Boxes and stacks of old newspapers lined every wall. Most of the windows were covered with newspaper and cardboard as well. Lester sat in a wheelchair, his face mere inches from the half dozen computer screens in front of him.

"You're out of your corn-fed minds to do what you're doing, but I've come up with two available options. You're not going to like either of them," he started up.

"Lay it on us," Melanie urged. The man in the wheelchair finally spun around to face them.

"Melanie Roy Cutlass," he claimed. "I gained the intel I needed. If you're going to be of use to anyone, you'll stop by Ammu-Nation for a few shooting lessons before you cost my men their lives."

"Roy?" Franklin echoed. She grimaced. He and Trevor laughed. Michael shook his head.

"Alright, let's talk business already. I ain't getting any younger."

"Oh, right. Raiding the Federal Investigation Bureau. Option A - Michael, you'll go in just before closing and pose as a janitor. You'll mop a few corners and rig a few C4 charges to explode once you're clear of the building. Franklin, Trevor, and a hired gun will pick you up a few streets over in a fire truck, then you'll return to the scene and play dress up so you can get in and get out. I'll have rigged the signal so…"

"So we should be the only firemen on scene. Got it. Do I have to actually mop?" Michael inquired.

"Of course. It has to look believable. After you blow the charge, you'll all go in, grab the hard drive, and get out of there before the real heroes show up. Melanie, since you're in on the city's EMS, I assume you can help us get our hands on a fire engine. Am I correct in this theory?"

"I hope so. What's the second option?" she shot back, heart already beginning to race in her chest.

"Skydiving after hours when there's minimal security present. Trevor, you'll fly them over Los Santos from your hangar. The three of you, and of course, a precautious extra gun, will parachute down and land on the skylight atop the FIB building then make your way inside. Michael you'll hook up your phone, where I'll have a special application installed, and I'll quietly get to work. After the files are wiped, Trevor will escort you out by air. Slick as WD40. Security shouldn't be a problem, but we're taking zero chances. So, which are you considering? You putting out forest fires or coming in with wings?" Lester explained. Michael stretched his neck and turned to the only female in the room.

"When's the last time you checked in with your EMS?" he questioned. She shrugged a shoulder.

"A few days after we met. Why?"

"It'll look suspicious, you just checking in after all this time… Hmph. What if something happens to Trevor? He'll just be hovering there, in the air, yeah?"

"Oh, I appreciate your concern, Mikey. Love you too," he grunted with a roll of his eyes.

"Cut it out. I'm thinking carefully for once."

"Just have someone else on standby on the ground just in case," Franklin piped up. "I'm all for skydiving."

"I'm not one to play with fire anyway," Trevor added.

"Playing it quiet sounds like the safest thing," Melanie agreed. She felt uneasy about infiltrating the building of the Federal Investigation Bureau, but blowing it up was far out of her league.

"Who's my backup?" Trevor indignantly asked.

"I met a girl a few weeks ago. Taliana Martinez. You can look her up if you want, Lester. She seemed about her business. I'll give her a call," Michael explained.

"I guess that settles it," Lester sighed as he turned back to his computers. "You fools. I'll call you in a few days once I've worked out all the kinks. Until then, stay out of trouble and get out of my house."


	12. Lock N Load

"The fee to shoot is fourteen dollars. Twenty for beginners."

Melanie swallowed hard as her doe eyes flickered over the various guns and weapons on display behind the shop owner. She never thought she would have to enter an Ammu-Nation store, but she was slowly learning to never say never.

"Looking for anything in particular?" the man behind the counter curiously questioned.

"I'm, uh, just browsing," she hurriedly replied. He frowned slightly.

"You know how to shoot?"

"I've never even held a gun," she confessed, rocking on the tips of her tennis shoes. She eyeballed a nightstick similar to the ones LSPD toted on their hips.

"There ain't no need in being bashful, little lady," he unlocked the glass case separating the two of them then withdrew a black and silver weapon.

"This is your standard .380 ACP handgun, also known as a 9mm. A woman like you could even stow it in your purse. You never know when you might need the protection. There's crazy people roaming all over these city streets," he explained.

"You don't know the half of it," she sighed with a small laugh. He laid the gun on the glass and she gawked down at the alien object.

"Pick it up. Hold it. Rule number one, never point it at someone unless you mean to shoot them."

She nodded, wrapping her thin fingers around the weapon.

"Feel its weight in your hand. Familiarize yourself with it. Think you can fire it?" he questioned, peering down at her curiously. The loud alternative music playing from the store's loudspeakers buzzed around her skull as she turned the pistol over in her hands. Finally, she nodded.

"That's what I like to see. I'm Rick. I'll be teaching you how to shoot. Give me a sec," he claimed with a small grin. The shop owner disappeared into the storage room then returned with a sign that read: "Back in 20". He closed then locked the case, sat the sign on the counter, and took the .380 from her.

"Follow me," he explained, leading the way through the store. The muffled sound of gunfire made every single one of her muscles tense against one another. Through several windows, she saw a couple of people firing weapons in another room.

"Put these on," Rick handed her a pair of clear, protective glasses. He slipped large, plastic earmuffs over his ears then handed her a pair. She pressed them tight against her head. Rick reached into one of the various drawers before the two of them and withdrew a loaded magazine.

"Weapon's still on safe," he pointed to a protruding button below the barrel. "Magazine well and ammo chamber empty. No brass, no ammo."

Rick held the door open for her to enter the shooting range. Everyone else seemed to know what they were doing already. Gosh. She was going to look like an idiot.

"What's your name?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Err, Mel."

"Alright, Mel. You're gonna watch then do exactly what I do," he explained. Rick brandished the magazine before forcing it up the empty magazine well of the gun. He then switched off the safety, pulled back the cover and revealed a brass bullet now perched in the chamber.

"Weapon on fire and one in the chamber," he announced before ejecting the solo bullet and catching it in the air. She emitted a slight gasp. He switched the weapon onto safe, ejected the magazine, popped the bullet back into its spot atop the others and handed her both the magazine and the gun. She gripped the magazine and tried shoving it into the magazine well. It was harder than he made it look, considering the unfamiliar weight of all the bullets.

"Okay," she grunted after the machine clicked and the magazine remained in place. He chuckled at her slight struggle. She pried back the cover, but it slipped from her fingers and pinched the meat of her knuckle.

"Ow!"

"Take off the safety first. Then grip it tighter between your pointer and thumb. Welcome to the world of ammunition," Rick interjected. She chewed her bottom lip and did as instructed, this time with more force.

"There you go."

The brass glistened in the chamber against the overhead light.

"Now I'm going to stop you. Put the safety back on," he interrupted. He led her to a booth then flipped a switch on the wall. The silhouette of a torso on paper appeared downrange before them.

"Okay," he stood just behind her. "Feet shoulder width apart. Put both hands on the gun. No, don't put your finger on the trigger yet. Take the safety off."

Melanie fumbled with the button, hands shaking slightly.

"Breathe," Rick mentioned. She dragged in stale air through her nostrils then switched off the safety.

"Aim as best you can at the middle of his chest, that's called center mass, and whenever you're ready, pull the trigger at the bottom of your exhale."

The handgun kicked back in her grasp not even a second after she squeezed the trigger. The paper target rippled as a hole revealed itself in the lower left hand corner – far from the intended goal.

"At least you hit the paper," Rick joked. Melanie finally allowed herself to breathe, relaxing her shoulders and swallowing hard. Her fingers tingled and her wrist hurt. Her heart was thudding hard against her sternum.

"The first one is always the hardest," Rick informed her. "Let's go again. It's muscle memory."


	13. Raiding the Bureau

"Alright. This is Taliana Martinez. She's our emergency getaway. I hope you're ready for what's coming," Michael started with a slight laugh. "God forbid something happens to T or his chopper, you're the one we're looking for."

The boyish looking Hispanic grinned and nodded.

"I know what I'm doing, so long as no one puts a knife to my throat. You cross me, I'm taking us all down," she remarked.

"As expected, Taliana. Right here is Patrick McReary. He helped case that jewelry store. He's the semi-rationale to all of us."

"I may be your stereotypical Irish bastard, but I can shoot my ass off. Call me Packie," the slightly pale man beside Michael interjected. His accent was heavy and he looked as though he hadn't slept in days.

"I'm not trying to generalize here, but I might've heard about you on the news a few years back. Back in Liberty City, an Irish guy was shot and killed during a bank robbery and a police officer was shot down in a park in Liberty City," Melanie suggested.

"Mind your mouth. That was a friend of the family, Saint Michael. The cop was my brother, Francis. God rest their souls," Packie commented with a shake of his head. "But don't take my sympathy for weakness."

"No one's doubting anything about you 'cept your inability to catch a tan, princess. Can we go already?" Trevor complained from his spot leaning against his vandalized helicopter.

"Alright, alright. Just a quick follow up, everyone does know how to work a parachute, amiright? And a gun?" Michael questioned, raising an eyebrow in Melanie's direction. She fingered the pistol holstered on her waist.

"Well, I mean, this is San Andreas…" Taliana remarked.

"Yeah. What she said. You'd be a fool not to," Franklin added, gently elbowing Melanie in the side. She nodded in agreement.

"Good. Suit up and climb on board," Michael heaved a heavy cardboard box from the trunk of his car.

"These a little small, ain't they?" Franklin asked with a frown. He held a spandex-like suit up against the moon's light to observe its size.

"It's gonna be cold at the altitude we're bailing out. You have no choice. Anything else would be torn to shreds," Michael explained, passing out a smaller box filled with ski masks.

"I'll be surprised your lungs get you through this one," Trevor wickedly taunted. Once everyone was situated in the helicopter, he powered her up and started to gain altitude.

"Get us over the Galileo Observatory. Lester said that'll be the best trajectory," Michael explained.

"I know. I was there. How about you try 'please' next time?" Trevor demanded. Melanie drew in a shaky deep breath and closed her eyes, trying her best to block out the city lingering beneath them.

"You gonna make it?"

Her eyes snapped open and she found Trevor's head whipped around in her direction.

"Fine. Just recalling what happened the last time I was this high off the ground," she complained. He laughed once then returned his attention to the controls in front of him. The crescent moon was perched high in the starry sky. Hopefully the darkness would be their friend.

"I got a speech to busy your minds as we head for our destination," Michael voiced into everyone's earpieces. "Here we are tonight, of different backgrounds, skill sets, and motivation for being here. Me? I'm the one putting my neck on the chopping block and getting screwed. I'm not being paid a red cent. If it were up to me, neither of your suicidal asses would be either."

"Gee, thanks," came Taliana's voice. She was on the ground, in the city, scouting for a suitable getaway vehicle in case things went horribly south.

"Your pessimistic outlook on life always makes me feel like the luckiest motherfucker alive," Franklin snapped with a wave of his hand.

"I don't know about you gloomy fucks, but the money I get after tonight is going in my daughter's savings," Packie explained, readjusting the duffel bag draped over his shoulder.

"I'll probably buy… Yeah, I'll buy more guns," Trevor replied over his shoulder. Michael peered out of his side of the helicopter. White wisps of air showed past his lips as he dragged on the cold air. Melanie shivered.

"What I think I'm trying to say is thank you all for putting your heads on the line for my shitty obligations to a shitty FIB agent."

"Shut your cakehole, Mikey," Trevor interjected, levelling out the chopper. "We're here."

The entirety of Los Santos glistened and sparkled below the group.

"Am I fucking insane?" Franklin muttered.

"You gotta be to be in this business," Packie sighed, shuffling to his feet and peering toward the ground.

"Alright folks. Next target, the skylight. See over there? To the north east? Let's go," Michael ordered. Melanie knew if she hesitated, she wouldn't go through with it. As soon as the words left her mentor's lips, she flung herself from the helicopter. For a second, she thought Trevor would catch her again and she swore she felt Franklin reach for her before she began her free-fall. There were voices shouting from her earpiece, but the wind whipping up past her face was too loud. Cold air hitched in her throat and lungs as she toppled through the seemingly endless, indigo sky. The air tossed her about, rolling her onto her back then onto her stomach again. Just as she could make out the details atop the various skyscrapers looming over the city, she pulled the cord.

There was a slight delay then the chute opened, jerking her body and slowing her descent so aggressively, she bit her tongue and the irony taste of blood danced at the back of her throat.

"Jesus! I thought you were never going to pull it, kid!" Michael declared, slightly angry. She let out a hesitant, slightly shocked laugh as she tugged at the ropes, steering her descent.

"Fo'real, Mel! You fucking lunatic. You scared the shit outta me!" Franklin complained.

"I like her already," Packie complimented. Trevor's growl resonated into everyone's ear, getting her to roll her eyes and fight the smile relentlessly tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Down, boy," Packie added. "I was just saying."

"Okay," Lester's voice explained. "When you all land, Franklin you cut away a decent piece in the glass. The roofing's low enough, you'll drop right in. Trevor, you-"

"I'll be hovering above. This ain't my first job," he miserably interjected.

"Incoming!" Packie announced. He zoomed past Melanie, knees tucked to his chest as he came in to land. He toppled over sideways and slid across the cement as the wind pulled at the fabric of his parachute. Melanie extended her body until one of her feet came in contact with the rooftop. She released the ropes and daintily danced to a halt. She was still shimmying from the harness when Franklin and Michael toppled between her and the Irishman.

"What's the status on security?" Michael inquired.

"First elevator camera's got one guy on his way down to the first floor via elevator. His shift replacement just clocked in on the lobby's computer. The second elevator camera is out, but you're sixty stories up, so be careful," Lester explained.

"Shit. You heard the man. Let's get a move on it," Michael ordered. The cool air howled as it rushed over the roof's cinderblock walls. A pit lie in Melanie's stomach. The sound of Trevor's helicopter blades cutting the air meters above the group was barely audible. Franklin withdrew his multi-tool and carved a large rectangle into one of the wide, glass windows. Packie retrieved a suction cupped device from Melanie's backpack and used it to remove a section of the glass. Warmer air greeted the group through the new, impromptu entrance.

"Ladies first?" Michael spoke up. Melanie swallowed hard, grabbed the edge of the skylight's frame and lowered herself inside. The elevator on the other side of the room chimed as soon as her soft soled work boots touched the rug.

"Christ. We got one right on top of us," Michael gasped.

"Shit!" she squeaked before scurrying behind a pillar to hide from view. The security guard whistled as he crossed the wide room, but the tune faltered to silence as the wind whistled overhead. He turned his eyes to the skyward hole. Michael's eyes darted to Melanie's frozen frame. There was no way she would pull off anything to help the plan. The guard reached for the walkie talkie on his waist, but before Michael could formulate a plan of action, Packie leapt through the window, knife in hand. The sharp end dug into the guard's neck as the criminal toppled over him. The guard pawed at the mask on Packie's face before he staggered to the ground then completely collapsed.

"Now get your asses down here and do your fucking piece before some worse shit happens," he hissed, spitting on the guard as he bled to death.

"I see I hired the right people for this one," Michael shifted his eyes to Melanie as she left the pillar's cover. "You guys watch that elevator and those stairs."

"Could you move faster? Getting a little bored up here," Trevor complained in a gravelly voice.

"You wanna shut up?" Franklin asked, both rhetorically and sarcastically.

"The door to the server room is locked," Michael announced, tugging at the handle.

"Damn it. Hold on… Okay. You're gonna need something heavy to get in. I can't hack it," Lester explained, fingers racing over the keyboard in front of him.

"Will this work?" Packie asked as he withdrew a sticky bomb from the duffel bag across his torso.

"A little loud," Michael replied with a smirk. "But effective, nonetheless."

"You keep a pound of C4 on you at all times?" Franklin asked incredulously.

"Hey. You never know."

Michael placed the bomb against the door and took a step back.

"Well we've got no time to waste. Cover your ears," he announced. He leaned against a pillar across from Packie and pressed a button. The explosion sent debris flying and immediately, an alarm started blaring.

"Sounds like Uncle T's kind of party down there. I wanna play!"

"Our quiet approach is over," Michael sighed. "Get ready!"

He disappeared into the server room. Melanie pulled the pistol from its holster on her hip and switched off the safety. Muffled shouts came from the stairway.

"You ready?" Franklin asked. She hurriedly nodded. He took cover on the other side of the wide room. Packie knelt beside her behind the bench.

"This is life or death. Make EVERY one count," he advised. The elevator let out a chime. A bullet hit the metal bench and bounced into the wall a few feet away. Her heart beat was suddenly audible against her eardrums.

"I hear gunshots. Do I need to come down there?" Trevor asked. He circled the building one time and resumed his spot hovering over the skylight.

"Concentrate on what it is you gotta do, T," Michael calmly ordered.

"You're the one who needs to concentrate," his best friend shot back.

"Damn right," Michael muttered. He licked the sweat collecting just above his top lip, fingers darting over the keyboard. Various boxes came and went on the screen before his eyes.

"Plug in your phone, pull up Agent Haines' file then run Hacker Supply and Brute Force," Lester commanded. Just as he clicked Haines' files, he caught sight of his name a few spaces down on the list of offenders. MICHAEL TOWNLEY. He hesitated for a moment before highlighting his file and running the programs.

"M, I just got two different-"

"Don't talk. Just do it," he interrupted, taking a step back from the monitor.

"You got it," Lester complied. He could hear his fingers running rampant in the background. A timer popped up on the phone screen. A stray bullet planted itself in the wall across from him. The sounds of the fire fight finally faded into play. He took cover using the nook just outside of the server room and fired a few rounds off from the carbine rifle in his hands.

"About gotdamned time!" Packie groaned. He jumped to his feet for a second and shot down a few men with the spray of his shotgun. He caught sight of Melanie. She dropped an empty magazine from the pistol in her hand before reloading. She cocked back the chamber then left her cover to shoot.

"Well shit," he quietly admired his choice in companions.

"What we waiting for?" Franklin shouted, blindly firing his rifle at the spray of bullets raining in his direction.

"The software is gonna take a minute or two to finish," he explained.

"We've got a prob-"

"T?" Michael called. The line buzzed with static. The glass of the skylight shattered and the room glowed scarlet for a moment as an explosion erupted overhead. Trevor's helicopter whined and whirred before disappearing from view. An unidentified helicopter whizzed by.

"T!" Franklin tried. The entire building shook.

"All communications with our helicopter have been cut," Lester warned. "I've lost him."

"Dammit!" Michael declared. "Alright! You're on, Martinez!"

"What's happened to him?" she curiously inquired.

"We don't know."

Franklin shot down two men just as the computer let out a loud, monotonous beep.

"It's finished. Grab your phone and get out of there," Lester explained. Michael unplugged the device and stuffed it into his duffel bag.

"We gotta get downstairs!" he announced from his cover.

"They're thinning out. I think we're getting to 'em!" Packie yelled.

"Good. My gun is getting hot!" Melanie exclaimed. She leaned against a pillar and removed the third empty magazine. Wisps of smoke escaped the barrel. There was blood on her arm. She wasn't sure if it was hers or not.

"Come on. Push for the staircase," Michael announced. Packie rushed forward, his shotgun spraying pellets into a man in a suit that left the elevator.

"No! I said, the stairs. Half the LSPD would be waiting for us in that fucking box," Michael cursed.

"T! T!" Franklin pressed two fingers to his earpiece, desperate. Michael led the way down to the next floor.

"Come on. Stay with me. Breathe!"

The group ran into a paramedic performing CPR on an injured security officer.

"D-Don't shoot!" he cried out, his hands flying up.

"Keep moving!" Michael declared. Melanie slowed for a second, staring at her colleague. He gawked at her and the men, his hands in the air. There was no way he recognized her. No way at all. She reached up a hand to palm the mask clinging to her sweaty face. Not with the mask on. She was just being paranoid. There was no way he knew. There was no way anyone knew. They couldn't. No one could.

"Let's go," Packie pushed her forward. She swallowed hard and ran to catch up with Franklin and Michael. The gun suddenly felt extremely heavy in her hand. The group pushed down another floor, shooting three more men in suits.

"Oh no…" Franklin quietly muttered pushing through a door. Michael stepped over the rubble that had once been a wall. His stomach fell to his feet when he caught sight of Trevor's helicopter. It had crashed, lodging itself into the side of the building. The windshield was shattered. Blood was smeared on the glass. The cockpit was empty. Melanie stepped into the room and gasped. Packie followed.

"Holy Mary and Joseph…" he muttered beneath his breath.

"Maybe he got out before anyone got him," Franklin suggested. With that, a bit of the floor gave way and the helicopter creaked and whined as it toppled out of the building, toward the ground. She took an unconscientious step forward, but Packie stopped her.

"He didn't make it," Michael pursed his lips. Franklin shook his head and started for the doorway.

"There you go. Right on cue with the pessimism. Man, let's get this shit done so we can get out of here," he pitched.

"Out of everyone here, I think I have a right to be pessimistic. I'm putting my life and my entire family on the line for this bullshit," Michael snapped.

"And we're not?" Melanie inquired, catching everyone by surprise.

"Well…" Michael shuffled his feet. "At least you guys are being paid for your efforts."

"Fuck the money!" she suddenly declared. Her voice echoed in the crumbling building. Her eyes were burning. The wind carried her remark over the starry Los Santos sky. She glared at the man who had gotten her into this mess before following after Franklin. A guard stepped out from behind a bullet ridden wall. She shot him once in the leg then in the back as he started to shoot for Franklin.

"After you, boss," Packie said, waving on Michael.

"Exactly what the fuck we needed," Franklin griped.

"I just wanna get the fuck out of this building and the fuck away from everyone," Melanie shakily huffed. She tripped over a body. Franklin caught her arm and steadied her wobbly frame.

"You gonna make it out of here?" he questioned, lowering his eyes to hers.

"I'd better."

He nodded and the group pressed down two more flights of stairs.

"This should do," Michael spoke up. He shouldered open an office door. The wall of windows across the room had shattered from the damage done from the helicopter's collision so many floors above.

"Just don't look down," Packie wickedly chortled. Just as everyone set their knotted ropes around the window panes, their earpieces crackled with Lester's voice.

"There's a Merryweather assault chopper in route to your location. This isn't just a job anymore. You have to get out of there as fast as possible. I'll meet you at F's," he warned.

"You heard him," Michael chimed. They each turned their back to the window and slowly leaned back. Melanie's gloved hands gripped the rope tight. She started to glance over her shoulder.

"Hey!" Franklin warned. "Don't do that! Get it together!"

She quickly nodded and eased her grip on the rope then jumped backward. The wind gently wrestled with the group as they rappelled from almost fifty stories in the air. The security team's assault helicopter reared its head around the building. The heavy beating of its blades tangled Melanie's frame in the air.

"Fuck!" she cried out, struggling to plant her feet back on the side of the building. She was a good forty feet above the group, who now had boots on the ground. The assault bird opened fire, its rounds pouring out from its mounted machine guns shattered the glass and concrete holding the building together. She covered her head from the debris.

"We gotta do something 'bout this chopper, dog," Franklin subjected. "She ain't built like us. She can't do nothing like this!"

"I got it," Packie calmly volunteered. He swung his duffel bag off his shoulders and reached inside.

"Oh shit. Are you fucking crazy?" Franklin shouted.

"Ain't we all?" Packie shrugged and mounted the RPG on his right shoulder. The assault helicopter rounded the building, bullets ricocheting. There were sirens and lights everywhere.

"Steer clear!" he announced, closing one eye to take aim. Franklin and Michael threw themselves onto the pavement as the rocket left the barrel. A thick black smoke engulfed the group, but the sound of the collision was unmistakable. The helicopter erupted in a massive fireball of smoke and burning metals. The blast forced Melanie against the side of the building. She felt her left shoulder pop out of its place and let out a scream of agony.

"Down here, Mel! Come on!" they all yelled. With tears in her eyes, she gripped the rope and lever with her right hand. She kicked away from the building and finished the descent in several bounds before letting herself collapse onto the ground. Michael detached her harness and held her dirty, bloodied face.

"Where're you hurt?" he demanded. "Talk to me, kid."

"My shoulder, my fucking shoulder!" she gasped. "You gotta set it back."

"What?"

"You have to pop it back into the socket!" she shouted. A bullet bounced off the wall a few yards away. Packie responded back with a blast from his shotgun.

"Hurry up," she panted. "You gotta get me out of here."

"Shit, how do I do this?" Michael asked. She shook her head.

"Franklin's gotta do it. He's stronger than you. Hold me up," she instructed. Michael sat her up on the ground and supported her in his arms.

"Grab below my elbow and my upper arm."

"I'm not cut out for this shit," Franklin nervously cursed. He gripped her arm and waited for her to speak again. She drew in a shaky breath and calmed her trembling chin. She felt like puking. Red and blue lights flashed yards away. Officers were yelling threats and accusations. Packie was spitting and cursing up a storm.

"On three, you're gonna pull up on my arm and take my elbow slightly outward. Okay?"

"Mel, what if-"

"You want a piece? Let's fucking go!" Packie declared, firing rounds at the straggling officers and security guards.

"One…" Michael counted, his grip on her waist tightening.

"Two…" Melanie grit her teeth.

"Three!"

Franklin did just what she said. Her entire body jumped and a sickening pop sounded out over the gun fire. She bared her teeth and kicked her feet.

"Did I get it?" Franklin asked. She nodded, clenching her teeth.

"Fuckin' A. Let's go," Michael slung her uninjured arm over his shoulders and pulled her to her feet.

"I can't shoot," she warned.

"You just worry about you right now, kid."

"I got it," Franklin took point behind them as Packie covered the front.

"The fuck is the car?" Michael demanded as they made their way toward the back of the building. "Fuck. We're fucked!"

"In here!" the familiar voice called out. The passenger door of a parked ambulance swung open. Melanie couldn't help the nervous and astonished laughter that escaped her lips.

"Smart move with the vehicle choice," Michael replied, helping her into the back. Franklin took the passenger. Packie sat on the bench beside Michael. Melanie rest on the stretcher.

"I figured this would work well with the whole emergency situation. As long as we keep it cool, we're home free. No gunshots, no checkpoints, no police," Taliana explained. She switched on the sirens and pulled away from the FIB building.

"I never thought I'd be sprawled out in the back of one of these," Melanie mused a short while later.

"What happened back there?" Taliana asked over her shoulder.

"That snazzy ass Merryweather security team sent a bird after us and Mel got her shoulder dislocated," Franklin explained.

"And T?" she pressed on, curious.

"We don't know," Packie spoke up before Michael could.

"Damn. Did you get everything done?" the driver asked. She switched off the sirens as they entered the villas and houses of Vinewood Hills.

"Oh yeah. And then some," Michael cheerily stated.

"What do you mean?" Franklin asked, turning around in his seat.

"The program was deleting Haines' file, right? Well while I was searching for his data, I found my old alias and thought, what the hell? Why not?"

"Old alias?" Franklin rolled his eyes and faced front once again. "So you getting off with a clean record or something? Ain't think about nobody else's, huh?"

"I didn't have the time to search. It was just right there!" Michael insisted.

"Make a left up here," Franklin ordered. "You hear that, Lester? Get your ass up and open the door for us."

"You're fucking crazy," Michael turned to Packie. "But worth every cent, I guess."

"You guess?" Melanie spoke up, struggling to sit up. "He saved my life twice and you guess he was worth every cent? Packie, if I didn't have bills of my own, I'd give you my cut."

"No way, gorgeous. You're gonna need it," Packie graciously declined. "You did your share of work."

"As if," she sighed. "I fucking suck."

"Don't worry about that right now," Michael reassured. The ambulance came to a stop just outside of Franklin's house.

"Taliana, can you drop Packie off wherever he needs to be then dispose of this thing?" Michael asked.

"Sure thing, boss. Destroy the prints. I got it. You'll call me if you need me again, right?" she chirped.

"Damn straight."

Michael helped Melanie climb out of the back. Franklin unlocked the door to his home to let everyone inside.

"I thought you were gonna get the door?" he asked aloud.

"And I thought you weren't gonna make it out of there alive," the man announced from the living room of Franklin's modern, bachelor pad. The bottle of liquor in front of him was fairly empty.

"We almost didn't," Franklin noted. Michael lowered Melanie to the sofa. She immediately kicked off her boots.

"Still nothing from Trevor?" Lester asked. The room was quiet. Franklin whisked away the whiskey from Lester then passed it off to Melanie.

"Still nothing," Franklin somberly stated. On cue, Lester whipped out his laptop and began searching furiously. Melanie took a swig from the glass bottle. The harsh liquor satisfied a burning within her chest. There was dirt between her teeth and the irony taste of blood somewhere in her mouth. Michael disappeared into the kitchen to wash his face.

"I can't establish a satellite connection with his cell phone," Lester calmly claimed.

"Maybe it was destroyed in the crash."

"Maybe."

"Well on the off chance that Trevor didn't make it, we'll split his cut evenly between the three of us," Michael sighed as he shuffled back over to rejoin the group.

"Michael!" Melanie exclaimed. "What the hell?"

"Yeah, what about Packie and Taliana?" Franklin interjected.

"No. What if Trevor made it?" she declared.

"She's right. Trevor's crafty. There's no need in being selfish already, Michael. Haven't you had enough of doing that?" Lester snapped. Michael put his hands in the air.

"Is it gang up on Mikey day? I was just suggesting," he hoarsely claimed. She shook her head, turning away from the man. Just why? Why did she feel the need to get caught up in such nonsense?


	14. Trevor Philips Industries

"Ron!" Trevor bellowed. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and sat up. His head throbbed. Reaching to touch the back of his skull, his fingers scraped at dried blood which had caked and coagulated itself at the nape of his neck. There was a red knot to the left of his forehead, but his nose had finally stopped bleeding. He let out a long breath then leaned down and pulled on a pair of worn out, black boots. His entire body ached. The crash and his drug withdrawal were taking its toll.

"Ronald!" he growled. "I know you hear me!"

Lifting the hem of his dingy white t-shirt, he found a bruise about his torso from the sudden jerk of the parachute harness he'd made use of at low altitude after his helicopter was shot by Merryweather Security. He would have to deal with them eventually.

"Rooooon! Waaaade!" he yelled, louder this time as he shoved open his front door and stepped into the humid, late evening air. The desert had a beautiful, scarlet hue every night. It suited well with the woman standing frozen just outside the gate encasing his junky yard.

"Melanie?" he blurted out.

"You're..." she swallowed hard. "Alive?"

"You think I'm dead? It's gonna take more than a few tons of flaming metal hurtling down to earth to kill me," he reassured. He couldn't ignore the bruises and scratches on her face or the sling which cradled her left arm.

"How'd it go?"

"Good," she replied with a nod. He grunted in response.

"Ah. Well I just..." she gently shook the bouquet of white lilies.

"Nice fucking flowers," he remarked, eyes darting back and forth between her face and the bouquet.

"Coming, Trevor!" Wade and Ron's muffled voices frantically and finally answered. The door of the trailer neighboring his snapped open and out scurried his friends. She slightly limped up to him and thrusts the flowers into his chest. She opened her mouth to speak, but when she caught his gaze in hers, she shook her head and pursed her lips.

"See you," she muttered, hobbling down the porch steps. She kicked an aluminum can on her way to her car. He saw her look to him through the windshield before she drove away.

"Who was that, boss?" Ron asked.

"She sure is pretty," Wade added. Trevor snatched his eyes from her bumper disappearing down the street to glare at the men.

"Yeah, you like that?" he pressed. The men hesitantly nodded. He slowly approached them.

"If I ever...EVER catch you two eying her..." he stood toe to toe with his partners. Ron shifted nervously while Wade's eyes darted about, his frame trembling.

"I'll have your innards baking on the street," he dangerously seethed through his teeth. He finally put space between them and looked down at the flowers in his fist. He had never gotten flowers before.

"Is there work to be done?" he asked, toying with a petal. Wade shrugged.

"Ron?"

"There's a cache of guns dropping in by air behind the O'Neil's," the scrawny man replied.

"Weapons! Perfect!" he exclaimed. He motioned for the men to follow as he went back inside his trailer. After digging through his mostly empty cabinets, a familiar feeling of insecurity washed over him. He grabbed a Pisswasser bottle from the cardboard case of six and emptied the beer down the drain. Then, he filled the empty bottle with water from the tap and stuffed in the bouquet.

"What do you think?" he asked, placing the makeshift vase on the countertop.

"It-It's nice, T," Ron commented.

"Perfect," Wade added.

"You're got damned right it is," he quietly growled before moving the flowers to the coffee table beside the couch. He stared for a moment before placing them back on the counter. They almost didn't fit in.

"Alright. What time's the drop?" he asked, hands on his hips. Ron pulled a small notepad from the pocket of his wrinkled cargo shorts and flipped through a few pages.

"Err, quarter before nine?" he explained. "And since it's on their property, the O'Neil's won't think nothing of someone trying to take it."

"Except me. I mean, I _am_ Trevor Philips."

* * *

Sure enough, later on that night, Trevor was buzzing through Grand Señora Desert on a four wheeler. Alannah Miles' _Black Velvet_ echoed through the cool air as he kicked up sand, grinding over bushes and tumbleweeds. He avoided the main roads so as to prevent someone spotting him and tipping off the unnecessarily excessive brothers. There was Elwood, Walton, Wynn, Earl, Ernie, Dan, Daryl, Doyle, Dale, Ned, Cletus, Dalton, Don, Larry and Chester - too many for his liking. If they gave him a hard time, he'd pick them off. He planned to in time.

Even with the wind whipping past him and the air humid from the draft coming in over the Alamo Sea, he could still smell Melanie's bouquet on his shirt. He steadied the four-wheeler as he went airborne over a set of railroad tracks.

"You there?" Ron's voice buzzed in his ear.

"Nearly."

"The cargo plane just exited Fort Zancudo airspace. It'll be with you any minute," Ron Jakowski explained. Half of Trevor's mouth twisted upwards into a small smile. That was why he liked Ron. He was straightforward and he knew what he was doing. He'd never held a weapon in his life, but he made sure Trevor always had plenty of his own, legally or not.

"I hear it," Trevor claimed. "I'm riding up on the O'Neils' now."

"Be careful. Later boss."

Trevor stopped the ATV just atop a hill overlooking the farm. He switched off the lights and peered through his binoculars. There was one guard perched on the roof of the house. A few lights were on inside.

"Cake walk," he told himself. Suddenly, there was a pop and a yellow smoke trail wafted to the sky behind the house then a red flare was shot in the air. He didn't move until he could see the flashing lights on the plane's wings faintly blinking in the distance. As soon as he took off, the noisy transmission alerted the guard on the roof.

"Philips is here!" he shouted, but Trevor was already speeding past the barn and circling behind the wide, wooden house. The cargo hold of the small airplane popped open and a wooden crate drifted to the ground with a white parachute attached.

"Get outta here, Trevor!"

He was already halfway to the illuminated marker in the middle of the field. Bullets whizzed by, whistling in the air. He turned the radio up louder once The X's _Los Angeles_ began playing. Just as the crate neared the ground, Trevor tossed a hooked bungee jump cord over his shoulder. It caught on the metal handle of the box and dragged it along behind the all-terrain vehicle.

"He's got the goods! Stop him! Fuckin' shoot him and stop him!" the eldest brother, Elwood, announced. By then, it was already too late. Trevor had whipped a wide circle around the house and barn and was already catching air over sand dunes on his way back to his trailer in Sandy Shores. The crate bounced and dragged along behind him. He shot a glance over his shoulder to find no one pursuing the ATV. It was almost a law to never come after him in his own territory.

"TREVOR!"

Ron's distressed voice came clearly audible over the loud music. The man ran down the street as fast as his knee brace would allow. Trevor's eyes darted past Ron and stared at his trailer. The screen door was hanging off its hinges, light spilling onto the darkened street. He brought the four-wheeler to an abrupt halt alongside the fence. Ron clutched at his chest and swallowed hard.

"Ron?" Trevor peculiarly requested. "Get the crate."

"Yes boss," he panted, doubling over. Mouth slightly ajar, Trevor bounced up the stairs and entered his trailer.

"Hmph," he grunted, eyes surveying the mess in front of him. His entire abode had been ransacked and destroyed. The television over the kitchen counter buzzed with static, a thin trail of smoke escaping from its paneled back. His beer was stolen. His kitchen table was toppled over and split right down the middle. Someone had fired at his couch with a shotgun then spread the stuffing all over the place.

"Ain't this great?" he airily asked no one in particular. He knelt down and picked up the gifted lilies lying amongst the rubble. A couple petals floated down to the floor.

"Hmph," he let out again, resting both his fists on the counter and temporarily closing his eyes. "This… This way why I can never have nice fucking things."

"The Lost came by," Ron cautiously announced from the doorway.

"The Lost, you say?" he softly repeated, eyebrows resting high on his face. He rubbed his eye and departed from the trailer again.

"Where're you going?" Ron questioned. He picked up a crowbar lying in the yard and popped open the stolen crate. A miniature arsenal greeted the maniac. Without a word, he swiped up a carbine rifle and climbed back onto the all-terrain vehicle.

"T?" Ron called.

"Put away the crate and clean up my shit. I'll be back," he explained before speeding away in the dark again. He stopped a ways down the street, pulling into the Ammu-Nation.

"Ah, jeez. I hope you're actually going to pay this time," the man behind the counter spoke up.

"You hope WHAT?" Trevor growled.

"Nothing, nothing. Just…get what you need and go on. I can't afford to pay for anymore damages to my store," he whimpered. Trevor approached the counter and tapped on the glass case.

"Sticky bombs. A lot of them," he demanded. "And quit selling to that halfwit Cletus."

"He actually uses money when he stops by," the cashier claimed. He snatched away the bombs and narrowed his eyes at the man.

"You can suck me off the next time I come back if it'll make you feel any better."

"Just go," the man waved him away. Trevor blew him a kiss before slinging the bag of ammunition over his shoulder and leaving the store. Specks of rain smacked against his dirty forehead as he sped toward Stab City. He switched off his headlights and parked a few feet away from the entrance. By now, thunder and lightning were breaking the sky above at different intervals. He crept into the rundown trailer park, bombs in tow. Rounding the side of a trailer, he found a member of The Lost MC resting his head atop a coffin lying in the bed of a parked truck.

"Don't you worry, Johnny," he sobbed. "We'll get Philips. The son of a bitch won't get away with doing this to ya."

"Afraid not," Trevor quietly spoke up. Just as the biker turned around to face him, he whipped out his knife and slit his throat. He stumbled backward, gurgling and clutching at the coffin as he bled out.

"There, there. Rest easy Johnny boy," Trevor murmured, gently placing a sticky bomb on the coffin before resuming his stalking in the dark. He managed to plant devices on four more trailers before a couple motorcycle engines started up.

"We almost ready to ride out?" a voice asked. Shit. He scurried around the back of an abandoned school bus and planted one last bomb on a large tank of gas perched beside someone's home. They were all going to burn.

He then climbed back onto the ATV and drove across the street. Just as a flash of lightning crackled overhead, he pressed the button. Stab City lit up like fireworks and he cheesed like a content, spoiled brat burning ants beneath a magnifying glass.

"Trash my place, will you? I'll trash yours! FUCK YOU!" he couldn't help to declare. Its people fled left and right, some screaming and some crying. A few motorcycles tried speeding out of the park, but he mowed those leftovers down with his rifle.

"Au revoir, Lost MC," he mocked as he took a seat on the hill to watch the buildings burn for a little while. A few coyotes ran past and entered the woods. It wasn't until sirens began wailing in the distance did he pull out his cell phone.

"Ronald? You done cleaning my shit yet?"

"Mostly done, boss. When're you coming back?"

"Right now. Ronald?"

"Yes?"

"Clean out my shower and lend me a bar of soap."

* * *

 _ **Season premiere of The Walking Dead and AHS: Hotel sucked any and all creative motivation out of my body because they are so flawless. Tell your friends to follow and favorite!**_


	15. Family Feud

_**It's Friday. Got the next four days off. Fiance finally set up a Skype account and is off duty for the weekend. Sly Fox's "Let's Go All The Way" is stuck in my head. Gonna be a good weekend, even though I'll probably just be a recluse and play video games around the clock. Hello to you all and I hope you're having good days/nights!**_

* * *

The clattering of the front door echoed to the high ceiling of the first floor as Michael shouldered his way into his mansion.

"Hey, Mand," he called, placing the few shopping bag in his hands at the foot of the staircase. "Tracey? Yo!"

When no one responded, he stepped outside and lit a cigarette. As he tucked the lighter away into the pocket of his jeans, he caught sight of two tennis rackets lying haphazardly in the doorway. He took a long drag of the cigarette before snuffing it out beneath his shoe and clenching his fists.

"Amanda!" he bellowed as he marched back inside. "Amanda? You better not be! Not in my house!"

"Fuck you, Michael. Go away!" his wife's knuckles were white as she clutched at the towel wrapped tightly around her bare frame. He was seething.

"I'm paying that turd a hundred and fifty bucks an hour to fuck my wife? In my own bed?"

He flung open the door. Amanda desperately clung to his arm as he forced himself inside his bedroom.

"Michael, go away!"

"Whoa. I'm sorry, bro. She said you had an arrangement," the faintly familiar tennis coach told Michael as he leapt to his feet and scurried across the unkempt mattress.

"You and I are gonna have an arrangement. I'm gonna arrange your fucking funeral-"

"I'm really sorry, bro! I'll comp the session, I promise," he insisted.

"You are a dead man. DEAD! COME HERE!" Michael declared, sidestepping Amanda and lunging for the instructor. The man panicked before throwing himself through the window, shattering the mosaic of glass.

"Fuckin' man…" Michael grumbled as he hurried down the staircase.

"Hey! You? Stop him," Amanda requested as Franklin approached the open front door.

"Sup man?" he greeted.

"Out of my way," Michael ordered, pushing against Franklin as he placed his hands on his shoulders.

"Michael, calm down," Amanda pleaded. The instructor climbed into his tiny red car and sped through the gates at the bottom of the drive.

"What the fuck is going on?" Franklin questioned, eyes darting between the madman and his bewildered wife.

"Nothing happened. It was a misunderstanding," she claimed.

"She fucked a prick in my bed."

"You bullshitting me?" Franklin tried, catching Amanda's face falling into a worried grimace.

"It wasn't like that!"

"You in?" Michael called over his shoulder as he approached the white utility truck sitting in his driveway. Franklin looked from Michael to Amanda then back to Michael.

"Fuck, I'm in. Let's roll. Let's get this motherfucker," he finally agreed.

"Just don't kill him!" Amanda cried out. She slammed the front door closed as Michael and Franklin sped from the driveway.

"This truck yours?" Franklin asked, looking over his shoulder and buckling his seatbelt.

"Guy doing some work for me. He'll get it back. Might have a dead body tied to it, but he'll get it back," Michael explained, his hands wrapped tight around the steering wheel as he sped along behind the red vehicle.

"Oh? So we're killing this dude?" Franklin curiously inquired.

"He'll wish he was dead," Michael claimed in a low voice. "Is that a problem?"

"Shoot. A dog shouldn't shit in another dog's kennel."

"Exactly. People have been shitting in my kennel for too long," Michael explained, turning onto the bustling, narrow streets of Vinewood Hills. The tiny car zoomed along mere feet in front of the two men as they moved in and out of traffic.

"The fuck is he doing!" Michael declared, stepping on the brake as an oversized, recreational vehicle pulled from its driveway and blocked both lanes of traffic. He laid on the horn until the path was cleared.

"Fuckin' stoner prick RV asshole!"

"Damn. Where'd he go? I think we lost his ass," Franklin complained. Michael shook his head and continued following the road.

"He lives somewhere up in the canyon. We'll find him."

He hunched over the wheel, eyes narrow as he scanned the streets.

"It's this track here," he explained, hunching over the wheel as his eyes narrowed. He carefully scanned the winding dirt road he turned the white truck onto.

"He in one of these fucking houses?" Franklin couldn't help but ask, almost surprised.

"There's his fucking car. Look," he pointed up to a suspended balcony sitting pretty behind a lavish home. "Little prick is up there."

"Ooh, shit. Coach doing alright for hisself."

"Hey! Asshole! You ran off before we could settle our debt," Michael called out as he put the car in park just beneath the home.

"Michael! Bud! You got the wrong idea, man," the instructor insisted. He growled, hopping from the car and slamming the door behind him.

"There's a wench in the back of the truck. Tie the cable to one of those supports up there," he explained. Franklin whirled in his partner's direction, frowning.

"You finna pull his deck down?"

"Well that prick pulled my marriage down," Michael kept his eyes on the man above.

"Man, you really gonna be this melodramatic?" Franklin asked, still pulling at the cable and starting away from the lunatic standing beside him.

"I told you I'd comp the session, bud!" the coach called down to the duo. The woman beside him peered over the edge before hurriedly disappearing from sight.

"There were a lot of freakin' sessions, _bud_. I'm thinking you were working on more than just her backhand," Michael announced.

"Mandy's backhand has come a long way, bro. There's just sometimes it's gotta get worse before it gets better!"

"Yeah? Well maybe I should come up there and practice my backhand…on your face!" Michael declared. Franklin locked the cable in place around the base of the support and shot his red-faced friend a thumbs up.

"Come on," coach complained. "Your negative energy is seriously bringing me down."

"Oh I hope it is, _bud_. You come into my house, take my money, and nail my wife. Are you fucking KIDDING ME?"

"I'm gonna stick up my hand and say that was uncool, bud. My bad. Seriously."

"How fucking magnanimous. May I please offer you my applause? YOU FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER!"

"Dude?" the tennis coach put up his hands as though to declare his innocence.

"We'll see how you like when someone fucks with _your_ shit," Michael turned away from the man with a shake of his head.

"Wait. You got the wrong idea, pal!" the coach tried, but Michael had already closed the driver's side door of the truck behind him.

"Dude, you are properly crazy," Franklin scoffed, barely situating himself in the passenger's seat before Michael had a foot on the gas pedal. He turned his head to the rear and watched the support beam tremble as he tore them from the boulders.

"Haha! Fuckin'-a. Let's see how he liked that," Michael declared. The support beams gave way and sent most of the luxury home tumbling down the side of the cliff.

"Homie ain't gonna be dining outside tonight," Franklin remarked.

"Fuck him and fuck his deck!"

"I think you pulled a little more than a deck down."

"That's a foolish man who builds his house on sand, baby," Michael recited. He changed gears and started down between the homes of Vinewood Hills.

"Hey, I don't think my boy Matthew was thinking trucks when he wrote that shit."

Michael's reached for his phone as it began to vibrate in his pocket. He didn't recognize the number, but answered regardless.

"Mr. De Santa, what the heck? That's not my house!" the coach's voice exclaimed. Michael glanced in Franklin's direction.

"Bullshit."

"Oh c'mon. I couldn't afford a place like that. I'm a tennis coach, I hit balls for a living. I was just hiding there…"

There was a clatter and a heavy accented women came over the receiver.

"Give me phone! You! You're a dead man! Green light! GREEN LIGHT! Martin Madrazo give you green light!" she breathlessly shrieked.

"Oh," a wicked grin cross Michael's face. "I'm scared, lady. Just fucking terrified."

His eyes stole a glance in the rearview mirror just as a spray of bullets planted themselves into the bumper of the truck. Franklin's shoulders hunched and he looked back in his side view mirror.

"Shit. We got some heavies on us, homie."

"You kidding me? Kid, do something."

"I'll give it a go. Keep driving, and don't start with that 'kid' shit again. I'm not the fucking kid anymore," Franklin snapped. He pulled out his piece and leaned out his window to return fire. The rear window shattered and Michael laughed.

"Keep us on the road, dog. I nearly got 'em."

There was a loud crash then Franklin plopped back down into his seat. Michael looked back in the mirror before relaxing in his seat.

"Alright. We made it."

"Shit. Barely. You sure do know how to piss off the right people."

"I had no idea it was gonna get that hot."

"Pulling house off the hillside sho' has a weird way of fucking with people."

"Yeah, well some people just need to be taught lessons..." he trailed off as an SUV hurriedly pulled into the driveway. The driver hopped out with a baseball bat in his hand. The passenger opened one of the back doors and an older man in a dark blue seat stepped out.

"Do you know who I am?" he immediately asked, pointing to a confused Michael. "Do you know who I am?"

"No," Michael replied with a nonchalant shrug.

"Do you?" he pointed to Franklin.

"I think so?" Franklin made a face and took a step back.

"Good," the man relaxed for a second. "I know who you are, but who are you?"

"I'm Franklin."

"License?" he ordered, holding out a hand. Franklin looked to the man wielding the baseball bat before sucking his teeth and handing over his driver's license. The man in the suit studied it for a second before shoving it into his back pocket.

"Now, Franklin," he politely began. "Maybe help Mr. De Santa here. Who am I?"

Franklin swallowed hard before pivoting in Michael's direction.

"I think Martin Madrazo?" he informed.

"Good boy. Maybe give him a little background."

"Man, Mr. Madrazo is… Mr. Madrazo is a legitimate businessman who was wrongly accused of running a Mexican-American gang and a narcotics ring, but the charges were dropped 'cause all the witnesses came up…missing."

"Smart kid," Mr. Madrazo praised. The woman from the balcony exited the car and stood alongside the man.

"Now, Michael. I got a question for you," he took the bat away his driver and stepped closer to Michael, who glanced down at the weapon. Mr. Madrazo swung fast, striking Michael in the knee and taking him down to the pavement. He swung open, a blow connected with his elbow. Michael groaned and writhed as the cloth of his shirt grew warm and damp. Franklin started for his friend, but the driver held him back.

"Why did you pull an architecturally significant, modernist, wonder home down the hillside in Vinewood Hills?" Mr. Madrazo barked.

"Agh. I thought the owner was banging my wife," he grumbled.

"Well that was a strange house for a tennis coach," Mr. Madrazo taunted.

"I wasn't thinking straight," Michael sighed from his spot on the ground.

"Clearly," Mr. Madrazo took a step back and handed the bat over to his driver once more. "Well… Natalia will need a hotel while you finance the rebuild, won't she?"

"Sure," he answered with a roll of his cold, blue eyes.

"I'm guessing here that the rebuild will be somewhere in the, uh, two point five million range?"

"Of course," Michael laughed once. Mr. Madrazo clapped his hands together once.

"Great."

The woman stepped forward and spat in Michael's face.

"That's nice," Michael laid flat against the ground and wiped the spit from his face. A few car doors closed and the SUV pulled away.

"Damn. You alright?" Franklin asked, hoisting Michael to his feet.

"Never better."

"Come on, man. That don't look to good," Franklin pointed to his arm.

"That's the least of my worries," he said, shuffling toward the front door. "Looks like we've got work to do. I'm mortgaged up to my eyeball and now I gotta finance some multimillion dollar rebuild."

"Mike, dude. You sure you don't wanna take a breather and start with the small stuff first?" Franklin tried.

"You're right… Call Melanie."

* * *

"And YOU! When I come back, no! IF I come back… If I fucking come back, I want you gone. I never want to see your face again! You raging psycho!" Amanda shrieked as she came clamoring down the staircase with suitcases banging together alongside her. Michael started to rise from his stool at the kitchen counter, but Melanie shoved him back down with gloved hands.

"If anyone's gonna be fucking angry right now, it's gonna be me. Mandy, get over it! Christ, she's been helping me out. Everyone knows you won't do it," Michael retorted.

"Sit still! You're gonna mess me up," Melanie complained.

"Oh I bet she does a lot of things that I won't do for you anymore, hm?" Amanda seethed. "I will not let you romp and run with whomever right in front of me."

"Mrs. De Santa, it isn't even like that," Melanie started but Michael cut her short.

"No, you don't owe her any kind of explanation, pal. If she wants to leave she can…"

Tracey and Jimmy quietly made their way down the staircase with suitcases of their own in tow.

"Of course! Listen to your mother. I'm the bad guy, once again, huh?" Michael rhetorically barked. Franklin sat at the kitchen table, squeezing the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. Michael rose to his feet, pulling away from Melanie who was stitching up his bloodied left elbow.

"Sorry, Daddy," Tracey quickly let out as she scurried out of the front door.

"James?"

"Dad, you're unstable, and that makes us unstable. I can't… I can't even, like, do what I'm supposed to when you're around," his son stated. "You scare everyone and you suck the life out of everything. I'll never get a job at this rate. I'll never go to college. I'll never get married."

Melanie and Michael looked to one another and frowned. His son shook his head and left the mansion.

"What's with this sudden departure?" came Trevor's voice from the other side of the door.

"And him!" Amanda declared, taking a step back as the lunatic pushed his way inside.

"Shit. So you made it out alive," Franklin didn't hesitate to approach him and dap him up.

"How you doing, T?" Michael frowned. Amanda slammed the door behind her and the kids. Trevor stood in the archway with his hands on his hips.

"Quit acting like you give a shit, fruit cake. It was Melanie that came looking for me, not you," he confirmed.

"I only came looking because I knew no one else was going to," she spoke up. Trevor clicked his tongue against his teeth as he approached the woman.

"Oh I know, sweet cheeks. This sack of lard will never give a single shit about anyone like I give multiple shits about you, and Franklin, and Lester… Hell…everyone. Remember that," he quietly explained.

"Alright, alright. Is that a clean shirt?" Michael laughed, changing the subject. One of Melanie's eyebrows rose. He let out a low growl, running his hands down the front of the green fabric where ZANCUDO was plastered across his chest in all-white letters.

"New pants too?" she added.

"Only slightly used. For fucks sake, is it illegal to go shopping?" he snapped. "You got more important matters to think about. Like, where Amanda's taking the kids."

"They're staying at a hotel for a while. Mandy says she's going to start the paperwork for a divorce soon. Fuckin' hell," he answered. Melanie grabbed Michael's shoulder and forced him back onto the stool so she could finish her work. The biggest lunatic in the room threw his hands in the air.

"So you're just letting her go? Mikey, that's your fucking wife. Those are your kids, your flesh and blood."

"Yeah, and? I'm sick of always fighting with her. They'll be safer anywhere but here," he sighed, cringing slightly.

"Michael pissed off some really important people," Franklin spoke up before Trevor could even ask.

"Like who? Do I know 'em?"

"I would hope you don't know Martin Madrazo," he urged.

"Wait. Martin Madrazo did this to you? When were you gonna tell me?" Melanie squealed.

"So you know him too, huh? Guess I don't read enough," Michael sighed.

"I know of him. I mean, I've been a first-responder to several of the scenes. He likes to cut the tongue and fingers off those who do him wrong then his men hit the major arteries," she explained.

"Last I checked, the elbow wasn't an artery," Trevor pointed out. "He wants you alive for something. What is it, fattie?"

"It's nothing," Michael lied. "Don't worry about it."

" _Don't worry about it_? Melanie here hasn't done legitimate work in weeks and now, today, you've got her sewing up your fuckin' arm? Haven't you done enough lying to me, Mikey? You don't wanna piss me off. I can get dirty again real quick."

"Enough of the gotdamned threats! I fucked up, alright? I pulled this guy's-"

"Mr. Madrazo's," she corrected, slapping a bandage over the stitches.

"Whatever. I pulled down his luxury wonder home in Vinewood Hills."

Trevor didn't speak, his mouth slightly agape as he stared at the man.

"I thought it belonged to the tennis coach. I walked in on the prick screwing Amanda in my own bed," he finished.

"So you pull his fucking house down? Where is the sonofabitch? I wanna cut off his balls and boil them in a soup."

"Man, do y'all two ever focus on the real issue at hand?" Franklin piped up. Michael rolled his eyes and sighed,

"I gotta come up with some dough somehow. A lot of it so I can get Martin-"

" _Mr. Madrazo_! I'm not kidding!" she insisted. "He will end you."

"Nobody is ending Michael De Santa except Michael De Santa," he scoffed.

"I disagree," Trevor mumbled, raising a hand.

"Anyway!" she interjected. "I think you should be using this time more wisely, like coming up with some kind of plan to get Michael out of this crap while I clean up this mess."

All three men sent her sideways glances as she wiped at blood spots on the counter top.

"What?"

"You're urging for work?"

"I don't think you want to be on Mr. Madrazo's bad side."

"Mmph, nope. We'll sit down and have a nice chat and that's it. I'm out of the game; retired. I'm not doing anything."

"Bullshit! Vangelico? Was Vangelico just for fun?"

"Well actually-"

"And working for the FIB?" she chirped without missing a beat. "Not to mention, you pulled me into this crock of crap when you had me kidnapped after a bank robbery. If that's your definition of 'retired' then you need a better dictionary."

He opened his mouth to protest, but Trevor's wicked laughter interrupted.

"Mel ain't playin' games this time around. Hot damn," Trevor giggled, amused and slightly aroused.

"And you," she snorted without even looking up from the counter. "You discovered running water. I'm impressed."

He stuck his tongue in his cheek and scratched at his head. It was Michael and Franklin's turn to laugh.

"Thought I'd try something new," he claimed. "Fuck you. All of you."

"Oh boy," Michael chortled, struggling to catch his breath. "Oh, I fucking hate you guys. Jesus Christ, Mel."


	16. Blitz

"Melanie!"

"Hmmph?"

"Wake up, kid. It ain't even midnight."

"Trevor? What's wrong now? Did Michael figure out a plan yet?"

"Remember that dirt road off the freeway where I saved you from those Ballas?"

"…yeah. What's going on? We got something?" she rolled onto her back and rubbed her blurry eyes. The streetlights outside cast long, orange beams of light into the dim bedroom.

"Trevor? What is it?" she repeated to his silence. The line beeped then the call disconnected.

"What now?" she groaned aloud, quickly sliding from the bed and slipping into a pair of jeans that had been laying on the carpet. Before she called him back, she caught the time – a quarter before eleven. Frowning, she was unable to even remember feeling tired or getting into bed. Time seemed to run endlessly, one hour after another and one job after the next. Trevor never answered, the call going to voicemail after a half dozen rings. She paused in tying up her shoe laces.

What if he had killed another cop and needed help disposing the body this time? She shook her head, scooping up her car keys and leaving the apartment. No. He rarely needed help, from what she had seen. Before she popped open the driver's side door, she drew in a deep breath and stared at the full moon above.

"Fuck it," she finally decided, taking the driver's seat and starting for the freeway. She frowned as she merged into the stream of bustling late night traffic, recalling the day the vans full of gangbangers tailed her all the way down the GOH. She merged into the left lane. Trevor had answered her call and reacted without missing a beat. It was only right she did the same. Only, she didn't have a shotgun stowed beneath the seat…or any weapon for that matter. So if he needed her help with something major, the call had been in vain… Again, she shook her head then gassed her newly modified Penumbra as the break in the median approached. Fingers tight around the wheel, she skittered across oncoming traffic just in front of a tow truck, which honked its horn in protest.

The high beams clicked on with a flick of her wrist as she crept along the dirt road. Elk and doe scattered. Trevor caught in her headlights a little ways down the road. He pushed away from the tree he leaned against and walked up to the car as she stopped. There was a sweat ring around the collar of his orange polo and dirt all over his black pants.

"Park beside my truck," he ordered, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "Then I'll lead the way."

"How far is it? Why don't I drive us wherever?" she suggested. He placed a hand on the roof of the car and leaned into her window.

"Don't trust me?"

"I have enough reason not to."

She returned his hard stare, something unfamiliar in his eyes. He pulled back to stand upright.

"I was just being considerate. Be a shame if something happened to your…" he sneered slightly, his eyes running the length of the car from front to rear. "Precious gift from Franklin."

With a slight glare, she shifted the car in drive and snapped into a sharp left turn to pull across the grass. After parking alongside the Bodhi behind a thick tree, she exited the vehicle.

"Follow me, amigo," he instructed. The two started down the gently sloped field.

"What're you doing out here this time of night?"

"You and Frank are _really_ hitting it off now that he pimped out your car, huh?" he started up, ignoring her question.

"What?" she asked, stumbling through a bush behind him. "It was free. He's just being nice since I accompany him to races."

"How many you been to?" he glanced over his shoulder. She made a face.

"Like, three. Why?"

"What're you even capable of doing with the crap he put under the hood?"

"Drive it?"

He was quiet. Cicadas and crickets sang their song. A cherry red Canis Mesa came into view behind several trees.

"This yours?" she asked.

"Do I look like the type of pouty hipster that drives a piece of junk like this?" he remarked. She pursed her lips and put her hands on her hips. He walked a slow half circle around the Mesa, scratching his head.

"See, I don't know about you kid, but I get angry. Real angry. Our line of work makes me angry. People make me angry. Los Santos makes me fuckin' angry," he paused to recollect himself. "Like Bruce Banner met The Punisher and had a baby."

She cautiously nodded. He beckoned her round the vehicle.

"You're angry, like…like a hungry baby bird waiting for mama to fly back with some worm chow, but it doesn't know mama bird got eaten by a cat three days ago," he explained. Her eyebrows drew skyward.

"Oh, am I?"

"Yep. It's all in the eyes," he quickly replied. He bent over and withdrew a golf club from beneath the Mesa.

"Whoa there-"

"Relax. It ain't for you," he pulled back both arms and swung at the already heavily dented door.

"Wait! Whose is this?" she stopped him before he could swing again.

"Ours," he offered her the golf club in his grip.

"No. I can't-"

"Sure you can. We got plenty options," he reached beneath the Mesa again. "Baseball bat. Crowbar. Nightstick."

"None of the above."

"You know you want to," he urged. He swung again and the noise the impact made echoed across the pasture. He smashed out the rear window, sending glass tinkling down to the grass. She watched, his face tight and determined. He paused to reach down to his boot and retrieve a hunting knife then stabbed both of the rear tires.

"How often do you do this?" she raised her voice so he could hear over the air hissing as it escaped the thick tires.

"Whenever necessary," he explained. He stopped swinging the golf club and ran a hand over his sweaty face.

"It's, uh, been sorta a hobby since I gave up the crystal. Keeps Uncle T steady."

"You gave up meth?" she echoed, thoroughly surprised.

" _Smokin'_ it, not cookin' it. Still got cash to make," he stated. He started swatting at the opposite side of the car with the golf club. It rocked on its wheels. She hesitated then swiped up the baseball bat.

"If you're gonna hit it, make it worth it," he explained. After planting her feet firmly in the dirt and shooting a cautious glance up then down the pasture, she took a swing that shattered the driver's side window. The sound pricked at her ears. Trevor took several steps back and watched the woman. She grew more confident with each swing, letting out grunts and gritting her teeth together. Paint chips flecked around her shoes. She stopped swinging for a second to wipe sweat from her brow and grit her teeth against the dull ache in her shoulder.

"What made you quit? You seemed like such a…methamphetamine enthusiast," she started up again. He let her bust the headlights then answered,

"A lot of things in the world can't be explained with just words."

"Try your best," she shot back. He licked the salty sweat from his top lip.

"I mean," she added, fighting to catch her breath. "No one quits a drug like that cold turkey."

"Watch yourself, kid," he remarked. "I do."

"That's bullshit," she let out in a sing-song tone. Her declaration shocked the both of them. The windshield cracked under her bat then completely gave way with a strike from his golf club.

"Feel better?"

She let out a deep breath and dropped the bat, reveling in the feel of the cool air on her sweaty skin.

"I feel empty…but full at the same time," she noted. "You still didn't answer my question."

"Maybe I'll be willing to trade intel once I got a couple drinks in me."

"Okay… Well come on. Let's find a bar," she enthusiastically suggested. He marched over to press the back of his hand against her clammy forehead.

"What?" she shied from his touch.

"You don't sound like yourself," he claimed. She laughed once.

"I just busted up a car; something I thought I would never do in my life. I guess I really did need that," she sighed, holding the bat over her shoulders.

"Well we don't need no bar," he started back toward his truck.

"The ever-so resourceful Trevor Philips," she piped up as he lifted a case of beer and a bottle of whiskey from the bed of his truck. "Beer before liquor, never been sicker."

"Fuck it," he denounced her advice, twisting the lid off a beer and handing it off to her.

"I'm all doped up on endorphins. No funny business," she warned, wielding the bat then propping it against the truck. He scoffed, although she had every reason to be wary.

"What questions you got? Get it out while Uncle T is here. Mr. Philips ain't as friendly."

She took a swig and kicked at a thick patch of weeds.

"Why are you so…?" she bared her teeth and let out a grunt.

"My mother was a stripper. My piece of shit father tried to abandon me in a shopping mall, so I burnt it down. Life's been a blur since."

"But what about the Air Force? How'd you go from a pilot to an…entrepreneur?"

"It's a slippery fucking slope. I played hockey, but got banned for sodomizing my coach with a hockey stick. Enlisted, but the witch in charge of psychological evaluations burned me before I could make anything of myself."

"And?"

"What'd I say about your curiosity after we hit Vangelico?" he growled. She raised an eyebrow and took another drink.

"After I was discharged, I floated petty crimes 'till I met Mikey and Brad and we became a real force…till he got Amanda pregnant and became a _family man_ ," he changed the tone in his voice to mock the idea.

"Who's Brad?"

"A friend of mine. He got busted on a job and is locked up under high-security in Bolingbroke Pen."

"Mkay, wait. Wait wait," she popped the top on her second beer. "Subject change. Why'd you drug me?"

He leaned back against the side of the truck and lowered his head for a second.

"You don't remember going off about getting back to the city and wanting to talk to Carter?"

"No," she shook her head.

"Well you did," he quickly added. "You tired yourself out trying to run up the street, but this old man's got stamina, kid-"

"Oh, please."

"I got you back inside, you passed out, but I wasn't gonna risk you trying that shit out while I was resting my eyeballs."

"Part of me doesn't believe you."

"I don't blame you."

She nodded, lowering herself to the grass and taking a seat.

"How'd you three track me down?"

"Lester."

"Of course. What's with him?"

"Some wasting disease," he answered, sounding bored.

"Got any questions for me?"

"When're you and Frank taking your relationship to the next level?"

She scoffed, laid back in the grass and looked up at the stars.

"We're friends, Trev."

" _Trev?_ "

"Yes, I like calling you Trev. No one else does it," she propped herself up on an elbow. "Problem with it?"

"It's better than half the names I've been called," he stated with a goofy guffaw.

"I'll call you T like the others do if that-"

"Fuck no," he uneasily shot back. "Trev is fine."

"Alright, _Trev_. If I don't get a solid eight hours in bed soon, the bitch in me will show her face. I gotta get back home," she hoisted herself to her feet and stretched.

"What? The night is young amigo. Let's go hit the skin joint downtown. Drinks and dances are free when you're friends with the boss."

She shot him a queer look.

" _You_ own The Vanilla Unicorn?" she questioned, chest growing tight.

"Yeah. Wait. You ain't one of them hardcore feminist chicks? Not gonna punch me in my junk for screaming 'free the nipple'?"

"No," she shook her head and shrugged a shoulder. "I just… A strip club? With a bunch of naked women waltzing around and calling you Sir or Boss? I just feel like…"

His eyebrows knit together as he waited for her to finish her sentence. She laughed once, shaking her head again.

"I just can't believe you own a strip club. Who in the fuck am I mingling with?"

"The most dangerous man on the west coast."

"Mm," she squinted. "I was thinking that title belonged to Martin Madrazo."

"Fuck him. Mr. Madrazo isn't scary, just rich."

"Whatever you say," she sighed, a slight agitation itching at her chest. Before he could insist, his cell phone rang with a text notification. She looked away to stare over the pasture as he plucked away at the illuminated screen. She swallowed down the last gulp of beer and kicked at another clump of weeds.

"Rain check on the strip club and sleep," he announced. "Our presence is requested at Mikey's. He said he thinks he's got something."

"Great," she sarcastically let out and started for her car.

"I told him you'd call Franklin and tell him to meet us there," he explained, snapping open his door and leaping into the truck.

"Why would you do that? I'd much rather call you and tell you to meet me somewhere that isn't Michael's," she effortlessly flirted. He hesitated before sending a completely bewildered expression in her direction. Satisfied with her actions, she shot him a shy smile before turning her key in the ignition and slamming her door closed.

* * *

"What's crackin'? Everybody here?" Franklin greeted as he shouldered himself inside of Michael's mansion.

"Right here," Trevor called from his spot on the living room couch. Melanie waved as he appeared in the archway.

"So we really back at it again? The sun ain't even up. What're we risking our lives for this time?"

"It's not corrupt government workers, I swear," Michael claimed.

"Probably worse," Trevor added.

"We're gonna get some money for that guy."

"Secrets don't keep friends, homie. How we doing this?"

"I want to hit a Gruppe Sechs truck," he answered. Melanie quit her happily bouncing on top of one of his wife's exercise balls in the corner and frowned.

"You fucking kidding me? They bolted up like a damn armory," Franklin exclaimed.

"That's beside the point. What matters is if we're gonna do it, we're not going in half-cocked. So pay attention," Michael snapped. He began to pace back and forth across his living room.

"Here's the plan, right? I got a couple boiler suits and masks waiting in the garage. I was thinking we suit up and intercept one of them armored trucks in Cypress Flats."

"How the hell you plan on stopping one of 'em?" Franklin questioned. Michael scratched his head.

"A trash truck," Trevor interjected. One of Melanie's eyebrows inched skyward.

"Park it in the road. Block its route," he continued.

"And after that? What about the dudes inside?" Franklin checked.

"I'll worry about them," Michael replied.

"You'd have to ram it and knock it over," she raised her hand and spoke up. "Knock the men unconscious so they can't radio for help."

"Knock…it…over?" Trevor echoed. "Just knock over an ENTIRE truck?"

"Yes, knock it over. Do you have a better idea?" she snapped. "If you're gonna come at an armored truck, you're gonna have to come at it in hasty and strong blitz."

"We'd have better luck flying a bird overhead and pickin' it up with a wench then flying it to a secluded location."

"Where're you gonna get a helicopter? Didn't your last one get-"

"Hey, hey!" Michael declared. Trevor grunted. Melanie resumed her bouncing, arms crossed.

"I can get a tow truck from my boy, Lamar," Franklin broke the silence.

"Is your 'boy' gonna ask too many questions? I wanna get this done quick and quiet," Michael explained.

"If he do, I'll handle it. Hopefully I don't suffer a concussion trying to help yo' ass," he told Michael.

"So what about the dough? Those doors ain't getting opened if our only way in is out cold," Trevor grumbled as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"C4," Michael stated. "It hasn't failed me yet. We'll blow the doors off."

The room was silent.

"We done here?" Trevor remarked as he rose to his feet and stretched.

"Frank, you get that tow truck. I'll get the trash truck. Mel, secure a getaway car. T, I need you somewhere up high in Banning. You're our lookout."

"As long as I'm not on the ground when shit hits the fan," he sang.

"Well hopefully shit won't hit the fan. I'm not buying flowers for anyone else," Melanie snapped, brushing past Trevor and following Michael into his garage.

"Flowers?" Franklin repeated.

"Forget it," she hissed, snatching up a grey jumpsuit and a hockey mask.

"Hustle up, people. I want us in Cypress Flats within the hour," Michael explained.

* * *

"This is a bad idea. This is such a bad fucking idea," Franklin complained, pulling into an alleyway and putting the tow truck in park.

"If you got any other plans of action, let me know," Michael spoke into his walkie-talkie.

"I do, actually. Lest called earlier. I need your help with a little something once he finishes with the specs of it all."

"Ah, you and the molester are best friends now, hm? You're just making friends all over," Trevor's voice crackled over the walkie-talkie. Melanie quietly rolled her eyes.

"Shut up, T. What's it looking like up there?" Michael interrupted.

"I got 'em crossing the bridge. 'bout a minute ETA," he explained.

"Good. I'm pulling up with the garbage now."

The front tire of the trash truck rolled onto the curb then bounced back onto the asphalt as Michael blocked off the road then cut the engine.

"Truck's in place. Where you at, kid?"

"Where you left me - the edge of Banning. Ready when you guys are," she sighed, her head pressed against the edge of the steering wheel.

"Alright, F. Hope is when they pull up right in front of you, you come at 'em hard. Bam. After the hit, we blast open the doors, grab up all the cash or bonds or whatever it is, pass it off to Mel and she takes it someplace safe until we shake the heat and I'm ready to deal with Madrazo again," he explained.

"This is all a little hopeful, homie, but you're the professional," Franklin noted.

"Well it's too late to back out now, sugar. The money's coming right at ya," Trevor growled. On cue, the green and white Securicar came to an abrupt halt and blew its horn at the trash truck blocking both lanes of traffic. Michael reached over the body of the former driver lying across the passenger seat and snatched up his black duffel bag.

"You better brace yourselves, you motherfuckers!" Franklin declared, switching off his headlights and gassing his borrowed vehicle. He barreled down the alley, coming at the Securicar with everything he had. The armored truck went flying, toppling onto its side. It scraped against the road and knocked down the wall encasing the lot across the street.

"Beautiful!" Trevor commented from behind his binoculars.

"Alright, kid. Move it," Michael ordered before hopping from the trash truck and rushing over to Franklin. The two men ran over to the Securicar lying on its side. Melanie switched on her headlights and started driving the stolen Seminole toward the ambush several blocks over. As Franklin and Michael closed the distance between them and the security truck, the driver's door swung open then clattered to the asphalt.

"Are you fucking crazy! What the hell are you doing?" the driver cried out as he emerged from the wreckage.

"Where's your buddy?" Michael declared from behind his hockey mask.

"You killed him! What the-"

"Good," Michael simply stated, pulling out his handgun. "Get down on the ground and put your face in the pavement. F, get these charges on the door."

"I'm on it," Franklin started over and pulled the devices from Michael's duffel.

"Alright, get back, M!"

Michael grabbed the security guard by his collar and dragged him away from the Securicar before he blew the charges. A ball of smoke and flames lit up the dark sky.

"Holy shit," Melanie shuddered as she pulled up to the scene.

"My fucking ears! I'm fucking deaf, you idiot! You pricks!" another guard declared as he emerged from the back of the truck, dragging an unconscious guard in tow. "The alarm's been tripped. The cops are on their way!"

Without a word, Michael aimed his handgun at the guard and pulled the trigger before climbing into the back of the armored truck.

"Take this and get out of here," he called over his shoulder. Melanie scurried from the car and snatched away the briefcase he was holding. Sirens began wailing in the distance.

"Yo, you hear all that?" Franklin gasped.

"Looks like they hit their panic button. Half the LSPD incoming!"

"F, take point behind that barrier. I'm going up here. T, you ready for whatever shit storm is headed our way?"

"As ever," he growled back.

"Go on, get out of here, Mel! We'll be in touch!" Franklin explained. She nodded and dashed back to the gray and black Seminole.

"Switch off your radio, kid. I don't want anything tying us to you. Just in case," Michael warned. She hesitated before switching off her walkie-talkie and tossing it down in the passenger seat atop the briefcase. The sound of gunfire started up, prompting her to speed up and put distance between her and the three men.

After she turned onto Innocence Boulevard, she snatched off her mask and wiped at her sweaty face as a helicopter buzzed overhead. There was no doubt in her mind it was headed to the firefight she had just abandoned. She reached over and stuffed the suitcase beneath the passenger seat. The orange streetlights lit up the interior of the car as she left the business district and started into the city.

"FUCK!" she cringed, slapping the steering wheel after she paused at a red light. She punched the dashboard a few times before resting her head on the tough leather of the steering wheel. Did she really drive away from the three men keeping a roof over her head? She groaned aloud. Another helicopter whirred past overhead.

"You fucking…idiot," she scolded herself, struggling to catch her breath. The car waiting behind her blew its horn and she jumped. The driver flashed her middle finger as she maneuvered around her car and continued up the road. She glared at the harsh green light above her before continuing home.


	17. Abandonment Issues

_***casually returns* Anyone play GTA Online? I finally did my first online heist (because modding Lowriders takes hella dough and contact missions and races aren't cutting it anymore) - the Fleeca Job. Spoiler Alert: Gus Mota using a massive magnet dangling from a Cargobob to pick up your Kumura was the funniest thing in the world.**_

* * *

Melanie sat in silence outside of the hospital. She couldn't remember how long she had been sitting in her car and despite it being almost three in the afternoon, she was ready for bed. Patients, doctors, and family members came and went. No one glanced at her parked on the edge of the lot. The ambulances had pulled out twice already, lights flashing and sirens wailing. She missed it all.

A sudden knock at her passenger window made her jump in her skin. Carter peered in through the glass. A moment passed with her contemplating starting the engine and driving off. Instead, she unlocked the door. Carter lowered himself into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind him, making her jump again. Just how tired was she?

"You look like hell," he finally let out. She lightly laughed, running a hand through her dark hair.

"How long have you been sitting here?" he asked.

"A while," she answered. "Shouldn't you be clocking in?"

"I've got a couple minutes to spare."

She nodded then continued staring straight through the windshield.

"They took you off the payroll last month, but they're hesitant to take you off the back-up roster. I told them you're just going through some things and that you might come back," he explained.

"And they bought that bullshit?" she asked, eyebrows knitting together as she turned to him. Her sudden agitation set him back. She could see it in his face.

"I'm sorry," she slouched in the seat.

"What have you been doing?" he asked.

"Working," she spat out.

"What kind?"

She opened her mouth to answer then closed it. She opened her mouth again, but her phone's shrill ringing from its new mount in the dashboard posed an interruption. Trevor was calling.

"Who's that?" Carter asked.

"No one," she replied, reaching over and silencing the ringer.

"You can talk to me. You know that."

"There's nothing to discuss," she snapped. He clenched his jaw and exhaled sharply through his nose.

"Whatever they're doing to you-"

"They're not doing anything to me, Carter. I swear."

"Melly? This isn't doing you any good. Look at you. You look half-dead. I haven't seen you like this, not even on our worst days."

"Everyone gets stressed. I know what I'm doing. You should go," she claimed, venom seeping into her tone. Her friend hesitated before shouldering open the door and exiting her car. She watched as he hurried across the parking lot. Carter glanced back at the car once before disappearing into the hospital. She shook her head.

"Please don't do anything stupid," she muttered to no one in particular. Her phone started ringing again.

"Yeah?" she answered.

"Where're you?" Trevor's stern voice questioned.

"Out."

"Don't be a smart ass. Smart asses get shot."

She let out a deep sigh and squeezed the bridge of her nose.

"Can you not be a dick right now?"

"No. What're you doing? We need to talk."

"About what? I'm at the hospital."

"What happened?" he curiously inquired.

"Nothing. I was just talking to Carter."

"About what?" he seemed to growl.

"Nothing of importance. Jesus Christ, Trev."

"What's got your panties in a knot?"

"I'm just tired. I'm gonna start home and get some sleep. I'll call you later so we can talk."

"No. I want to talk now while we've got time."

"I don't care what you want."

The line went silent. She waited, listening to him breathe, then pinched between her eyes and let out a sigh.

"I told you if I don't get some rest, things get ugly. I'll call later, alright?"

"I'm coming to your apartment."

"I'm not answering the door."

"Don't be like that, sweets."

"My name is Melanie," she corrected.

"Everyone gets a nickname, kitten."

She let out a huff and quickly hung up the phone. When he didn't call back, she started the engine and headed for the freeway. As much as she wanted it, sleep was the last thing on her mind. She would only toss and turn like she had done the past few nights. Even if she would have been little to no help at the time, leaving the men to fend off the Los Santos Police Department the night Michael took out that armored truck plucked at her nerves. The taste of betrayal danced on her tongue. She shook her head clear and clicked on the radio as she zoomed along the freeway, blending in with the city's average joes on their commute.

" _Destiny turned her face/ Nightmares and violent shapes/ The state of dreaming has left me numb/ Blue eyes and wandering lips/ True lies through fingertips/ Hidden tales forbidden love… You've left me miserable, miserable, miserable…_ "

The median on her left split and her little Penumbra meandered across the oncoming lanes of traffic. She shot a glance to the rearview mirror and tapped the brake pedal as the car bounced down the dirt road. Had she even checked for traffic before she skipped the median this time? Did she ever? Again, she shook her head. She needed to be alone and in silence. After parking where the Bodhi had been sitting a few nights ago, she swiftly abandoned her car and sauntered toward the battered Mesa. Either Trevor had visited or the two of them had put in more work on the vehicle than she could remember. She removed the golf club from its grassy place beneath the SUV and immediately took a swing at the headlights. Glass tinkled down the grass. She let out a deep breath and relaxed, feeling the wind in her hair and listening to the faded ambience of the bustling freeway beyond the hill. A smile itched at the corners of her mouth.

Melanie grabbed the crowbar and used the sharp end to carelessly carve her way into the cherry red paintjob as she circled the vehicle a half dozen times. The sound of the grating metal satisfied the restlessness in her bones. She popped the crowbar under the doorframe and forced her way into the vehicle. The untouched, all-black interior taunted her efforts. She pat her empty pockets. Where was Trevor's knife when you needed it? Fuck. She climbed from the vehicle and went back to work, swinging and swatting at the jeep. She scrambled onto the hood of the car and beat dents into the roof. The sound of a vehicle roaring up the quiet dirt road made its way to her ears. She cupped a hand over her eyes and made out the wisps of dirt as the familiar old truck came barreling in her direction.

"Knew I'd find you here," Trevor remarked as he came marching down the hill several minutes later.

"I'm not exactly trying to hide," Melanie snapped back. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched her swing at the battered Mesa with a crowbar.

"What do you want?" she asked after a few moments of his silence crept by.

"You gonna make it?" he tried.

" _Gonna make it_?" she echoed, pausing to wipe sweat from her forehead. "Who're you? My therapist?"

"Mel, you're shit at hiding things."

"I'm not hiding anything."

"Get down."

"Make me."

"Don't tempt me," he said. With a roll of her eyes, she leapt from the roof of the vehicle and stretched out her sore shoulder.

"What took ya?" she asked, frowning against the sun.

"I broke into your place then started out here when I saw nobody was home," he nonchalantly explained, snatching his crowbar away from her grasp.

"You broke into my apartment? You could've just called," she hissed.

"I did. You left this back in your car," he held out her phone. She glared at Trevor then snatched it away. Two missed calls.

"Tricks of the trade – be resourceful at all times," he claimed. "How ya feelin'? Hipster wagon clearing shit up for ya?"

"I could go for a drink," she suggested.

"Uncle T's all outta booze but let's hit the Yellow Jack Inn if you're that serious. I got some people I been meaning to meet out there."

"You know, Trevor Philips Country doesn't sound half bad right now."

"See?" he held out his arms. "It grows on you, didn't I tell ya?"

"Mm don't push it," she started for their vehicles.

* * *

"Hey."

Michael pulled his tired eyes away from the sights of the sniper rifle he was cradling.

"What?" he replied as he glanced back to Franklin.

"You heard from Melanie or Trevor any?" the younger man asked.

"No," Michael shook his head and continued scanning the area for their target. "Why?"

"Last I got was a text. Said she was headed out to T's out there in the country a few hours ago," Franklin explained.

"I guess the miserable prick is making a friend," he grumbled.

"Looks like it might be becoming more than that to me. And you're one to talk about 'miserable', Mr. Impotent."

"Watch your mouth," he warned. Franklin tugged at the collar of his shirt, which was damp with sweat. The afternoon sun beamed down on Los Santos from a cloudless, blue sky. Even Michael had shed the jacket of his suit a half hour ago. His white button-up was stained a faint yellow around the neck and underneath the arms. The two had been staking out on the roof of an abandoned car park in North Vinewood for almost three hours now, waiting.

Lester informed the men about a tech developer who has been selling customers personal information to hackers. He wanted the man gone. After much research, he discovered the developer was fond of a certain escort and even had a schedule for her. Now, just a few blocks down the street from where the escort was working, lurked Michael and Franklin.

"Is he ever gonna get here? Fuck," Franklin complained.

"I'm sure I'm going to die of eye strain and sunburn," Michael interjected.

"I'll be long dead of dehydration and boredom first," Franklin joked. Michael chuckled and readjusted the rifle in his grip. He squinted through the scope at the young woman standing on the curb. She was clad in a bedazzled, denim half jacket with a fluorescent lime bikini top underneath. Her lack of decency made Michael antsy and anxious. The daisy dukes revealed bruised kneecaps and discolored legs, a signature trait of most relic escorts in the city. He'd been familiar with the sights.

"Aye. I got a car coming up," Franklin claimed from behind a set of tiny binoculars. The topless sports car sped past the car park and began to slow as it neared the woman. Michael had the driver's head in his cross hairs. The driver and the escort were exchanging words.

"You gon' pop 'em or what?" Franklin questioned.

"That's not our guy," Michael calmly claimed.

"We been out here for-"

"You have to keep a cool head in this business. Just wait," the older man reassessed. Sure enough, after a few moments, the car sped away without her. With that, Franklin shimmied out of his shirt then tossed it into the getaway car to his right. He dabbed at his face with the bottom of his tank top.

The butt of the sniper rifle was digging into Michael's shoulder, which was probably bruised by now. He kept the woman in his sight. Another worker appeared alongside her. Great. Now there would be an audience. The women chat idly.

"You make sure you get us out of here quickly and quietly," he advised the younger.

"Yeah, man. Whatever you say. You just do your part correctly," he snapped. "Don't make me regret inviting you."

"Didn't I teach you patience, kid?" Michael asked over his shoulder.

"If there's anything you've taught me, it's how to become one angry motherfucker. I haven't quite grasped the part where I stop giving a shit about my friends."

Michael didn't speak. Franklin pressed the issue.

"Your reaction when we thought Trevor was dead during that job at the FIB building? Not exactly a tear-jerking performance. You're not too good with words, man. I mean, our first meeting involved you aiming a gun at my head from the backseat of your son's car. Then we lost your best friend on the job and you don't bat an eyelash?"

"You snuck into my house and stole from me. It's complicated," he finally answered.

"How many more times am I gonna have to risk my life for yours before I get a proper explanation?"

"Least half a dozen more, maybe. But by then Trevor will have probably killed me and eaten my intestines, then I won't have to deal with such prying questions."

"T wouldn't kill you. The hell you say that for? He's crazy, but-"

"I'm a genuinely fucked up individual. Take what you want from that," Michael sighed.

"Does it have anything to do with the FIB employing us?"

"You're a smart kid."

"Shit."

"I haven't been completely honest with you, but now really isn't the time," Michael claimed as another vehicle emerged in his crosshairs. The designated escort leaned against the passenger side door, her face through the lowered window. Just as she reached for the handle to enter the car, Michael squeezed the trigger. The bullet barely let out a whistle as it squeezed through the narrow chamber of the silencer. The shrill scream of the other women and the steady tone of the horn told them their target was finished.

"About damn time," Franklin lowered his binoculars. Michael loaded the rifle into a suitcase and placed it in the trunk of the all-black Coil Voltic. Franklin took the driver's seat and started the engine. Michael took his seat as the passenger and the two began to quietly descend through the garage.

"It's done, Lest," Franklin said into his phone before tucking it in his pocket.

"Hey. You got any plans tomorrow?" Michael spoke up a couple minutes later.

"Not really. Why?" Franklin asked. Michael rolled his neck and unbuttoned his cufflinks.

"Mind a drive out to Sandy Shores?" he asked.

"Only if I can stop at a Burger Shot on the way. What's up?"

"Gotta check on, T."

Franklin shook his head and asked,

"How naïve do you think I am?"

"Not very."

"You just told me Trevor would kill you one day. Obviously you done did some fucked up shit to his crazy ass and now that you're not one-hundred percent sure what he's up to with Mel, you wanna make sure."

"You don't know Trevor like I do."

"I know what a hit is and I know what paranoia looks like."

"I have a family to take care of and I ain't got time for Mel to get hurt either," Michael said. "I got money to make."

"We all got responsibilities and I'm tryna help you, but you gotta help me help you and keeping secrets ain't helping nobody."

"Like I said, we'll talk about it when it's time, but right now. It ain't that serious."


	18. Amok

_**Hi. Thank you to everyone for the kind words and reviews! It really means a lot to me these days. I think this chapter title is appropriate, considering this chapter is a hot mess. Character development has always been a tricky thing for me. KBye.**_

* * *

The Yellow Jack Inn smelled like stale cigarettes and chewing tobacco. Trevor held open the glass door and two fighting men collapsed on the floor in front of Melanie. Several disheveled customers glanced their way.

"Trevor," the older woman behind the bar spoke up. "You're still banned."

"What about these two?" he gestured to the men wrestling about on the floor.

"Whoever wins…gets banned," she stated. With that, Trevor side stepped the bewildered Melanie and yolked up one of the men by his shirt. Gripping his neck, he pushed the man head first into the wooden bar. He grabbed the other fighter and raised his arm above his head.

"He's won. Ban him."

"I can't ban him. He's my gotdamn husband," she explained. Melanie frowned down at the other man on the floor who groaned and covered his face.

"Husband? Janet, he's young enough to be your son," Trevor remarked.

"Ain't the Internet a beautiful place, honey?"

"Anyway, I saved your husband. Now get us some drinks," he ordered, directing Melanie to a stool. Janet looked the new face up and down before pushing the two beers in their direction.

"Okay…but any more bodies show up in my bar, I swear, I will not serve you. Who's your girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend?" Trevor echoed.

"Bodies?" Melanie questioned. Trevor rapped his knuckles on the counter then tilted his drink to his lips.

"Can I get something stronger?" Melanie requested. Janet pushed the beer to Trevor, pushed Melanie a glass, and sat two bottles in front on the counter.

"Whiskey or vodka?"

"Vodka."

"And I thought I had issues," he shook his head. Melanie swallowed down her drink just as the bell over the door jingled and a foreigner entered the Inn.

"Mr. Philips," the one in the suit spoke up. Trevor swallowed the last of his second beer and turned to face the man.

"Ah, here he is. Mr. Cheng, pleasure to meet you."

"Oh no," he quickly shook his head. "I am Mr. Tao Cheng's humble translator."

Melanie turned to watch the meeting as another man stumbled into the bar, his dress shirt untucked and tie knotted around his forehead. He was heavily perspiring and singing in a language she couldn't understand.

"Let's head outside and talk terms," Trevor ordered with a wave.

"The hell is wrong with him?" Melanie asked, watching Tao dance circles around a pillar outside the bar.

"American culture enthuses him," Trevor quickly explained. "Alright, Spreadsheet. I think I've proved that my organization can handle weight. Did Ron show you the business?"

"He did. Your assistant Ronald was very helpful. Except…" he took a step back as Trevor appeared to swell. "I'm afraid we want to go down a different path."

"What?" Trevor declared. Melanie placed a hand on his shoulder but he shimmied away.

"We want to explore other opportunities," the translator stated. Tao raved on in his native tongue again.

"Mr. Cheng's father, our boss, wants something a little larger. We want to move drugs, perhaps guns."

"This is my life's work. I mean since I was a little kid I-I dreamt big. Y'know, I've always wanted to be an international drug dealer and…weapons trader. Alright, so I'm begging you, let's make this happen," Trevor explained in a hushed tone. Melanie shook her head, which was started to lull with the alcohol.

"I'm very sorry," the translator admonished. Trevor's eyes flashed and his teeth grit together.

"You're sorry? You're fucking sorry? I just spilled my fucking guts out to you and you say to me you're sorry. Who you working with? Hmm, who?" he bellowed.

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Oh no, no, no. You're at fucking liberty, in fact I'd say you are obliged," he grabbed Tao by his dark hair. The man's singing faltered to whimpers as he was shoved against the wooden pillar.

"Fucking who?" Trevor bellowed, bashing Tao's head on the beam every time he spoke. "Who, who, who?"

"The O'Neil brothers!" his translator confessed.

"The O'Neil brothers, huh?" Trevor released the man and Melanie quickly knelt by his side, pressing her hands against the blood seeping through his skull.

"Are you shitting me?" he bellowed.

"N-No."

"'Cause those fucking O'Neil brothers, I hear a little birdie tellin' me that they have a bit of a problem, since one of them is going to have to be surgically removed from the skull of the other. Fuck you guys and fuck them!"

"Trevor?" Melanie called, rushing after him as he stormed toward his truck. "Trevor!"

"Stay here, sugar tits!" he demanded. She stopped in her tracks, halfway across the parking lot.

"Where're you going?"

"I got business to take care of. JANET!"

Several seconds ticked by before the bartender stepped out of the building.

"Keep my tab open. Gorgeous here can drink whatever she wants," he explained before speeding away and leaving her standing in the swirls of red dirt. Melanie coughed once, wiped the blood from her hands onto her top, and then rushed to her car.

"Honey, you don't wanna follow him! You got some kinda death wish?" Janet claimed.

"I think I do," she said before peeling away from the bar. Speeding along in time to catch the rusted tail of the Bodhi whip a right turn, Melanie pressed heavier on the gas. The Bodhi wove in and out of traffic meters ahead. She hunched over the wheel, her eyes slightly squinting to remain focused on the road. The humid air of the desert swirled in through the window. Trevor's gravelly voice was barely audible as he cursed into his phone.

Wherever he was going, wherever any of the boys were going to go, she refused to let them go alone. Or without her moral support.

"Gotdamnit," she muttered to herself as he turned onto a dirt road and screeched to a stop. He was slamming his door and reaching into the bed of the truck as she pulled up behind him.

"I told you to stay at the bar. Go back," he barked. He leaned against the side of the truck and twisted a silencer onto the barrel of a sniper rifle.

"No. What're we doing?"

"We?" Trevor repeated, eyebrows rocketing skyward. "There ain't no _we_ right now-"

"No. Gimme a gun," she used the bumper to reach into the bed of the truck and grab his assault rifle.

"No," he snatched the weapon away. "I haven't seen you shoot, but I'm sure it's shit. Get back to the bar or my trailer."

"Fuck you Trevor," she hissed. "I left you guys behind when we hit that truck. I don't make the same mistake twice."

He hesitated before shoving the sniper rifle in her direction.

"Go up that hill," he pointed over his shoulder with his assault rifle. "Lay in the brush and put the bipod down. Safety off, tuck the butt in your shoulder, cheek to weapon, eye down the sight, pull the trigger."

"I'll figure it out," she insisted. He grabbed her arm to stop her as she stormed toward her position.

"Wait till I'm in position, don't leave this spot till I come get ya…and if Uncle T's gotta circle back to save you, there's gonna be problems, kid," he explained.

"I got it, Trev," she wrestled out of his grasp and climbed atop the hill. She stumbled twice, causing him to shake his head.

"Kid!" he harshly whispered. "KID!"

Her head emerged from the greenish-brown bushes.

"You know who you're shooting?"

"I'll figure it out," she repeated before disappearing from his sight again. As directed, she crawled through the dirt then mounted the rifle on the bipod. She clicked off the safety and loaded a round in the chamber. Peering down the sights, she watched several ragtag hillbillies rolling metal barrels across the yard. A few guards stood watch on the roof of the expansive farmhouse. She pivoted enough to see Trevor running directly toward a duo shooting at bottles near a shed. As soon as he opened fire, the men rolling barrels and guards on the roof opened fire.

Melanie focused her sights on the farmhouse roof. She drew in a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The entire gun rippled against her shoulder. A guard collapsed. She gasped. Who was she even shooting at and what for?

"Those wide-eyed idiots were mine!" she heard Trevor bellow. Whatever she was doing didn't matter now. It just had to be done. She centered on another guard and dropped him on his back. The other two guards began opening fire on her location.

"Fuck," she cursed through her teeth, trying to control the trembling in her hands as she focused on a third guard. Trevor had disappeared from her sight of view, but gunshots and threats continuously echoed over the farm hills. The last guard disappeared in the house. The gunshots faltered for a moment before multiplying. She used the weapon's sights to frantically scan the area. Bodies littered the grounds. Things were silent now. She pulled her face away from the sights. Her heart hammered in her chest. A single gunshot rang out and a few seconds later, the farm house exploded. Melanie gasped then curled into a ball as debris flew every which way.

"Trevor?" she called, swiping up the rifle and clamoring to her feet.

"Trevor!" she shouted, breaking into a run toward the house engulfed in flames. She trotted past the bodies on the ground, hurriedly looking for his tattoos and seemingly permanent frown.

"Tr-Trevor!" she repeated, eyes beginning to burn. She wiped the sweat from her brow as she started around the front burning building.

"I thought I said don't move!" came that familiarly rough voice. Her heart hammered against her sternum as he came to a halt beside her on a four-wheeler. Without a question, he took back his rifle and pulled her onto the back of the all-terrain vehicle. The shock of what just happened settled on her nerves and she wrapped her arms tight around his torso. He sped them away from the farm and back to his truck beyond the hill.

"You coming?" he asked. She sat in a stupor. Sirens started up in the distance and he groaned. After tossing the guns in the truck, Trevor gripped her arm and forced her into the passenger seat. He started back toward Sandy Shores. Melanie let out a shaky breath, clenching her hands into fists and digging her nails into the palms of her hands in a pitiful attempt to squelch her trembling nerves.

"You did good, Mel," he announced, glancing her way.

"Don't sugarcoat it," she suddenly let out.

"Thank you," he grunted. "Don't beat yourself up about it."

"What… What if they had families?"

"Trust me, they didn't. We just ended what would've been the beginning of a disgustingly useless bloodline. We did the state a favor and I can finally cross that off my to-do list."

"Is that how you make it okay? Make it seem like you did the world a favor?"

"If you and I are gonna get along, don't bring morals in the mix when it comes to covering me," he claimed, reaching and turning up the radio. He looked over at her as she watched the Alamo Sea creep by.

"Where're we going?" she piped up as he continued past Sandy Shores.

"Back to the Yellow Jack Inn. We need drinks."

* * *

"Should I even be touching a firearm?" she called over her shoulder.

"I know how many drinks it takes to get a lady drunk. You are just fine," he reassured. He finished his sixth Pisswasser of the day and slammed the empty bottle on the fence before them. He made his way back over to where she stood, eyes glossy from the handful of beers she had swallowed after more vodka. A coyote cried in the distance.

"Show me how you aim," he commanded. She pointed the pistol at the various bottles lining the fence along the yard behind his trailer.

"No. No. No. You were doing so well. Don't lock your elbows," he explained, growing exasperated. He readjusted her arms.

"Then how do I fight the…thing?" she asked, tongue thick.

"R _ecoil_ ," he corrected. "That's where your strength comes in."

"Ha!" she scoffed. "I'm gonna accidentally shoot myself in the face, which doesn't sound bad at the moment."

"Shut up. Here…" he stepped up from behind and kicked her feet closer together. "Your legs don't go this far apart. Cant your body slightly and pull back your right leg."

She stirred up red dirt with her tennis shoes.

"Take the safety off and load one. I hope whoever taught you how to shoot a pistol at least showed you how to do one damn thing right," he complained in that rough tone of his.

"I think I handled myself with… Err. I think I…I think my sniper skills are on par enough to cancel out my shitty pistol tactics. And, it was the clerk at the Ammu-Nation in Strawberry," she claimed. He face-palmed himself.

"You won't hit shit with that mediocre police officer training. You're a criminal. You gotta shoot like one. You should've came to me or Michael or Franklin."

"Sorry."

"Yeah. Now tighten your core," he suggested. He placed one hand just above her navel and situated the other in the small of her back. She let out a small gasp as he applied pressure on her diaphragm. Even against the night's humid air, the slight irony smell of old blood on their shirts, and the thin film of sweat on her skin, the sweet smell of her perfume wafted against his nostrils.

"Keep it tight," his hot breath tickled the top of her ear. "Breathe in. Now out. Squeeze the trigger when your lungs are empty. In, now out. In, now-"

The pistol jolted her arms, all the way up to her shoulders. He steadied her small frame as the beer bottle in the middle of the fence exploded, its ruined shards tinkling to the thinning grass.

"Shit!" she gasped incredulously. "Why couldn't I do that shit when we were hitting the FIB?"

"Don't that feel better?" he beamed at the excited woman.

"Let me try again. By myself," she smugly proclaimed. He took a step back. She separated her legs and stood up straighter. The crack of the shot echoed over the Alamo Sea. Another beer bottle shattered. She shot two more.

"Think you're ready to shoot a rifle again?" he asked. "I can't have you on my team if your only weapon of choice is a pistol."

"I don't know," her face fell. "My shoulder hurts from earlier. Hey? Why're you helping me?"

"You're good, but I prefer knowing the people I work with will be great at their job."

"Murdering drug dealing hillbillies doesn't sound like my forte of practice, but then shouldn't we have done it sober, on a range?" she remarked.

"I'm the teacher, we're mostly sober, and this is my range."

"You can't be in control all the time. I take it that's what today has been all about?"

He didn't respond. He couldn't. The alcohol had given her what she needed and she was giving him what he hadn't expected would happen in a long time. Or ever, for that matter.

"I'm not sure of the story exactly because I trust you and Mikey and Frankie enough to not pry too much, but," she hiccupped once. "I know enough about pain to recognize when someone has a problem with it. You? You're on another level, my dear."

"You don't know what you're talking about. You're drunk."

"I'm fine."

Her voice was low and he didn't realize he was leaning in to hear her.

"You're getting intuitive and I don't know if I like it or not," he complained.

"You'll learn to like it," she smirked.

"Will I?"

"You have no choice."

"Okay," he quietly approved as she tensed against his hand on her face. He didn't know if he was comforting her or himself. He swiped a piece of her hair behind her ear. She felt so soft and so warm.

"Whose blood is on your shirt?" he interrupted the moment.

"Mr. Cheng's," she answered, chewing her bottom lip. "Not like that's what you're really worried about right now."

"Shut your mouth," he growled. She grabbed his hand as he started away.

"So you want me to kiss you…or you want me to go back to spending all my time with Frank?" she hinted. His heart made his chest hurt. Her chestnut eyes finally closed and he finally felt comfortable. Standing on her toes, she finally pressed her lips to his. He exhaled through his nose, his hand on her back gripping her shirt and pressing her closer. The pistol dangled from her fingertips for a moment before falling to the dirt.

She reached a hand up to rest on his broad shoulder, but he jerked away, gripping the back of her neck.

"It's okay," she reassured, breathless with anticipation and fear as she clutched at his stained polo. He drew in a deep breath to slow his racing heart. Then he leaned down and gingerly kissed her forehead, his fingers tangling with the soft hair at the nape of her neck. She opened her eyes, her gaze resting on the "CUT HERE" tattoo around his throat.

"You're gonna get yourself hurt, kid," he muttered.

"You wouldn't hurt me," she informed him.

"I don't know that."

"After today, I do."


	19. By The Book

**_TW. Everyone's favorite bit that landed Rockstar scathing criticism - torture interrogation. Also, anyone wanna drop their GTA Online or PSN username in the comments or in a message? I'm not part of any Crew and I don't personally know anyone who plays GTA religiously, but I could really use some reliable help when it comes to Heist and Jobs. I'm on the PlayStation 4. Add me: sugars996_**

* * *

"Look, there's his truck. He's here. Can we go now?" Franklin questioned. Michael closed the car door behind him. Franklin emerged from the vehicle and looked at the ramshackle trailer, his brow furrowed.

"I know we don't make the best pay, but is this REALLY what he calls home?" he incredulously asked.

"It's Trevor, whaddya expect? The man eats roadkill for dessert," Michael claimed.

"Like your taste would be any better," Franklin scoffed.

"Actually, I feed on the souls of everyone Amanda sleeps with. Helps keep me feeling youthful inside."

Franklin wasn't sure if he should laugh until Michael turned around with a grin on his face.

"You gotta see the good in the bad sometimes," he stated.

"Duly noted, man."

"Could you pricks be any louder?" Trevor growled, suddenly emerging from the trailer. He made sure to stop the screen door from slapping shut behind him then cupped a hand over his brow, squinting down at his partners standing in the morning sun.

"We could. Thanks for asking," Michael answered. "Where's the girl?"

"Sleepin'. What're you doing here?"

"Came to pay my old pal a visit," Michael answered with open arms.

"We was worried about you," Franklin spoke up. "You went off the grid after we jacked that bank truck."

"Yeah well I'm not the one who still needs to scrape up two million in green for Mr. Madrazo. Excuse me for taking a hiatus in my county."

"I just find it hard to believe you talked Melanie into coming out here with you voluntarily. What? You dope her up again or something?"

"AGAIN? What!" Franklin exclaimed, completely taken back.

"Ah shit," Michael groaned, running a hand over his face.

"Peachy, Mikey. Just peachy," Trevor nodded.

"You been giving Mel drugs? And yo' ass knew about it and didn't tell me? I knew you was sick in the head T, but you can't be fucking with people like that."

"It was one time; an accident."

"How you accidentally drug someone? Enlighten me!"

The thick wool blanket scratched at Melanie's legs as she rolled over in the squeaky bed. A beer bottle rolled off the mattress and hit the carpet with a thud. She drew in a deep breath and stretched. The sound of muffled shouts faded into play.

"Trevor?" she groggily called, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and sliding open the bedroom door. The tidy trailer was dim and empty, but the shouting and cursing grew louder.

"Crap," she muttered, stepping into her shoes then pulling open the screen door. She found Trevor straddling Franklin in the dirt, his hands around his neck. Michael stood off to the side, shouting and pointing a pistol at the duo.

"HEY!" she declared, dashing down the steps and grabbing Trevor about the shoulders. He shook her off and roughly pat Franklin on the cheek before rising to his feet.

"Watch who you're talking to, HOMIE," he warned as he wagged a finger. He turned to Michael who was tucking away his gun.

"And what were you gonna do? Shoot me?"

"If push came to shove," Michael boldly stated.

"What?" Melanie and Franklin both exclaimed.

"I bet you'd like that," Trevor crooned as he took a step in Michael's direction.

"Enough!" Melanie barked. She stepped between the men, turning her eyes up to Trevor then giving Michael a watchful glare. Trevor backed off first, bending over to help Franklin to his feet.

"What're you two even doing out here?" she pried.

"We could ask you the same thing," Michael shot back.

"I live out here, you sack of-"

"I felt sick," she interrupted. "I needed a change of pace and scenery."

"Sick?" Michael repeated.

"I thought you knew how to take care of yourself?" Franklin tried. She pursed her lips.

"I mean sick in the head. Unlike you three stooges, my morals are still intact and I'm not one-hundred percent okay with murder and stealing."

"If you have morals, then boy are you getting attached to the wrong guy here," Michael gestured to Trevor. "T is a bigger piece of shit than I am."

"Fuck you, cocksucker."

"Right back at'ya, T."

"T? _T?_ T! What's with this 'T', spiel? Do I know the guy? Or will it send you into cardiac arrest to say my whole name? Tre-vor? TRE-VOR."

"Trev, chill out," Melanie hissed, pulling at the collar of his shirt to peel him out of Michael's face. "Sue me for needing a little R&R."

Michael tossed back his head and laughed.

"R&R with this guy?"

"We got it, pork chop. I'm shitty. You got some more jokes in those khaki pants of yours?"

"If by jokes you mean jobs, then sure."

Melanie groaned and pressed her palms against her ears.

"I'm slightly hungover and I'm not done sleeping. I'm not here right now. I'm not hearing this."

Trevor gripped her arm as she started away from the trio. He was tempted to kiss her again, but he had already dealt with enough snide comments from the others this morning. Instead, he draped an arm over her shoulders and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

"Lay it on me."

"On our way up here, Dave and Steve called-"

"NOOOPE," Trevor tossed up his hands. "I ain't no errand boy for your bureau boyfriends. I don't care what contract you signed. They could cut off your little, pink nipples and feed them to starving clown midgets and I wouldn't care."

"Lovely enthusiasm," Michael voiced. "Let's hit the road. We're wanted in Banning tonight."

"Can we stop for breakfast?" Melanie griped.

"They're here now. You can relax," Dave informed Steve. Trevor's Bodhi and Michael's Tailgater stopped alongside the dilapidated warehouse in south Los Santos.

* * *

"About fucking time. You think we're running on your schedule?" Steve clapped his hands together.

"You're waiting for us, so you must be," Michael remarked. The tired woman brushed past all the men and entered the old building. She let out a groan as the damp smell of mildew tugged at her senses.

"This looks like my kind of party!" Trevor exclaimed as he descended the cement staircase behind her. He was excited, which was slightly off-putting to the others.

"Who is that?" she asked, staring at the man he approached. He was bound to a wooden chair with duct tape. There was a brown paper bag over his head.

"This…" Steve whisked the bag from the whimpering man's head as he explained. "Is Ferdinand Karimov. Mr. K here has a bit of intel about a terror suspect right here in San Andreas."

"Terror? I am no terrorist! I do home entertainment. Please, don't hurt me!"

"Shut up!" Steve barked with a frown. "You're a spy."

"Spies? No, no. No. I'm not spy. I do audio visual, hi-fi audio visual. I already said nothing."

"You sure? I don't think he knows much of anything," Franklin claimed.

"Oh, he knows. He's been working for the genius behind the plan for months now."

"Tahir?" Ferdinand cried out, first turning to Steve before beating his pleading eyelashes at the others. "Mr. Javan is VIP member. He pays well. Top customer. He would n-never terrorize-"

"Save it. I'm old and I'm not as sure a shot as I used to be. So Mr. K needs to get to specifying before we can take our shot. Michael, you're with me," Dave explained.

"Whoa, so we're just gonna off the guy?" Michael questioned stupidly.

"Shut the fuck up. I know it was you guys who took out that armored truck last night," Steve hissed. "And if you don't want a trail of breadcrumbs to tell on you, I suggest you do as I say. All I have to do is flip a switch and all four of you are done."

"Fuck you, Haines," Michael spat at his feet.

"Since when has taking someone out of the picture ever been a problem for you?" Dave asked with a mischievous smirk. Trevor carefully watched the man as he pushed Michael up the staircase and out of the warehouse.

"You there, hot stuff. I assume you know how to work this thing," Steve interjected. He pat the top of a heart rate monitor.

"Your job is to make sure that one…" he pointed to Trevor. "Doesn't accidentally, or maybe even purposefully, kill our source."

"Now that I know I'm in the shit of it, what exactly is going on?" she questioned, ending her vow of irritated silence. He yanked back a tarp, revealing a table covered with several tools – a large wrench, a car battery with jumper cables attached, a set of pliers, and a plastic gasoline container.

"You not talking 'bout torturing this dude, are you? You can't be," Franklin declared. Trevor picked up the pliers with a grin.

"Are you crazy?" she shrieked.

"Haven't you heard?" he shot back, eyes ablaze. She swallowed hard.

"I'm out of here. You coming, Mel? I can't be part of this," Franklin insisted. He started for the door.

"No comprendo, _homies_. You can man the walkie-talkie while I supervise you crazy kids. Keep in contact with Dave and Michael," Steve explained.

"Please. I don't, I don't know what you're talking about!" Mr. K cried. Trevor's fingers danced over the various torture devices as Melanie pressed wired attachments to the man's chest. The heart rate monitor began to beep rhythmically.

"Give us some details about your friend," Steve insisted. "Or we'll force it out of you."

"I don't know anything. Please, what're you gonna do with those?" he declared. Trevor wielded a pair of pliers. He grabbed his face and forced his mouth open with his hand, then he gripped a tooth with the tool and began to jerk his arm back and forth.

"God..." Melanie winced, turning away from the scene.

"I can' 'alk...if...I 'ave...no teef," Mr. K complained. His heart rate inched higher.

"What do you know?" Steve questioned. Trevor was damn near kneeling in the hostage's lap. Mr. K looked at him with wide eyes. He ignored the pleading gaze and continued his twists and jerks on a deeply rooted molar. With a sickening pop, a tooth came with the pliers as he toppled backwards onto his feet. Karimov whined and moaned, bloody saliva dripping down his torso from his mouth.

"Is he alright, doctor?" Steve wanted to know, snapping his fingers in Melanie's direction. She glanced at the monitor in front of her.

"Just...give him some air," she explained, raking her fingers through her hair. The walkie-talkie in Franklin's grasp crackled.

"We're on the road. Any idea where he might be?" came Dave's voice.

"W-What's today?" Karimov panted. "He might... He might be having big party. Big party in North Chumash."

"North Chumash. He'll be at a party," Franklin explained.

"Oh great. House hunting," Michael griped.

"Just be glad you're out there and not here," Franklin complained. Trevor whistled a tune, chucking the extracted tooth across the room. He swiped up the two jumper cables and sparked the current together over his head.

"Please, no. My heart!" Karimov insisted. Without a second thought, Trevor stuck both cable ends to the man's chest. Karimov jolted and trembled as the volts ravished his frame. The smell of burning flesh seeped into the still air. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and a deep gurgle escaped his throat.

"That's enough!" Melanie screeched. Trevor removed the clips, but Karimov's frame was already slumped in the chair. A single steady tone sounded from the heart rate monitor.

"Shit," Franklin quietly cursed, his hand cupping over his mouth.

"You killed him," she whispered. He looked away from the appalled woman and tossed the clips to the floor. Haines marched over, shoving Trevor out of the way.

"You Neanderthal," he growled. Quickly, he reared back his arm and struck Karimov in the heart with a syringe. He gasped back to life, quivering in the chair.

"Pull that shit again and you're on the chopping block, missy. Do your fucking job," Haines threatened with wide eyes.

"Am I dead? I want to be dead," Ferdinand quietly cried.

"Welcome back," Haines pat his bare shoulder and reclaimed his spot on the sidelines.

"We found the party. The place is filled. We need a description," Norton coaxed.

"He's an Azerbaijani," Franklin recited.

"I don't even know what an Azervagina is. What's he fucking look like?" Michael impatiently urged. Haines snapped his fingers over Karimov's head.

"Wake up in there!"

"He's got beard. Big, bushy beard."

"There's a lot of beardy types here. Is a little stubble gonna cut it? Vinewood is full of weak chins," Michael reported.

"Beards are in fashion in Chumash - land of the hipster. We need more," Norton insisted. Trevor picked up the heavy monkey wrench and paced back and forth in front of the man.

"Come on. You got anything, little shit?" Haines checked.

"I-I-I'm thinking," he trembled.

"EH EH. Wrong!" Trevor declared, suddenly rearing back the metal tool then swinging it forward on the man's left kneecap. Franklin closed his eyes to wince. Melanie jumped in her skin and watched the numbers on the screen spike for a couple moments. Karimov was bawling now, a blubbering mess.

"Why?" he wailed.

"Let's get this show on the road, Mr. K. Give us some details before I get you castrated. I'm sure Mr. Philips wouldn't mind," Haines ordered, smacking Ferdinand's reddened cheeks.

"He smokes."

"You get that?" Franklin asked into the walkie-talkie.

"We got a couple smokers here, but the state's cause of death consensus is mostly skin or lung cancer. That ain't it," Michael spoke up.

"Sounds like you're stalling. Loosen him up, Trevor," Haines ordered. He reached over and grabbed the plastic gas canister, shaking it menacingly.

"Please, don't! I'll drown!" he declared as though the man wasn't already aware. He gripped the seat of the wooden chair then effortlessly flipped it over. Melanie's mouth began to water as she grew nauseous.

"You going too far, T," Franklin warned.

"Shut up. Show our contestant what he's won today," Haines commented.

"Shit shit shit. I don't… Wait! I remember. I-I remember!"

Despite his utterances, Trevor draped a dingy rag over Mr. K's face and began drenching him in water. The man cough and sputtered, wriggling in his restraints.

"It's all in your head, Ferdinand! Don't worry!" Trevor declared.

"Trevor, that's…" Melanie huffed and tightened her jaw. "That's enough!"

He let up on emptying the plastic container, his eyes on her.

"What's the monitor say?"

"If I'm the one responsible for this man's health, I say that's enough," she snapped.

"Sugar tits, it's enough when I think it's enough."

"Trevor, if you keep going, I swear to God-"

"Enough squabble, love birds," Steve decided. "He ready to talk?"

The two men sat the chair upright. Trevor snatched off the rag and Ferdinand panted for air.

"You almost killed me," he cried.

"Keep complaining, we'll stick two bullets in you and just call an airstrike on Chumash Beach. What you got for us?"

"I don't. I don't know anything," he cried.

"Mr. K?"

"Please. I don't…"

"Okay."

"Average height. A-Average build. He-He's left handed," the man muttered, delusional with fear. Melanie looked away from him, unable to continue stomaching the dull excitement in Trevor's eyes or the blood slowly staining his clothes bright red.

"What's that?" Steve leaned in closer to the man.

"He's left handed…and he smokes. He smokes like a fucking chimney."

"Aah, okay," he pat Ferdinand on the shoulder before turning away. He stalked over to Franklin and snatched away the walkie-talkie.

"Any of those bearded party guys toting a cigarette in his left hand? Mr. K says he smokes like a pack or two a day."

"Redwood Cigarettes!"

"Thank you, Mr. K."

"Let me get this straight. You're telling me to assassinate a guy because he's got facial hair, a cigarette, and he's left handed?" Michael inquired, making a face.

"He's a threat to national security," Norton claimed.

"I see someone. He fits the profile. Yep, fits it perfectly."

"Put him down," Norton demanded. Michael hesitated for only a millisecond before he peered down the sights of the sniper rifle and squeezed the trigger. The man on the balcony dropped dead and the party-goers began to scatter every which way. Michael finally let out a deep breath, lowering the weapon.

"Steve, it's done," Norton relayed.

"Woo! That is a wrap my friends!" Steve cheered. "Quite the flock, the group of you. Now if you don't mind, I've got a racquetball game to get to, so, Trevor, if you take care of Mr. K, I think we're all set."

"What the fuck do you want me to do with him?"

"I would say he's outlived his usefulness."

The room fell quiet as Steve ascended the stairs and pushed his way out of the warehouse.

"C'mon, please!" Ferdinand begged. Trevor waited until he was sure Haines was gone before he cut Ferdinand free of the chair. The man collapsed onto the floor in a fit of coughs.

"Let's go. Come on."

"Where're you taking him?" Franklin asked.

"Don't worry about it. I'll take care of him. Mel, you coming?"

She shook her head as she powered down the monitor. He hesitated for a moment.

"No," she answered. "I'll catch a cab with Franklin. I'll call you later."

"You okay, kid?" Franklin asked after the door slammed shut behind Trevor and Mr. K. She waited for the familiar rumble of his truck pulling off to fade away before she started up the cement stairs.

"I knew this shit would start getting to you," he remarked once they were outside. She drew in deep breaths of the fresh, evening air.

"Just don't start with that 'kid' shit. I can handle digging bullets out of you guys, dislocated shoulders, running from the police, and carrying a gun everywhere I go, but this? What we just did?" she trailed off, shaking her head. "I've dealt with some sick shit, but nothing like that."

"Who're you telling? That was way out of my league," he agreed. He stuffed a hand into the pocket of his jeans and withdrew his phone.

"I know it ain't my place to speak because I was once in your shoes and look at me now… But if it mean anything, I'm always looking out for you. Ain't nobody else doing it," he explained. She glanced his way.

"I don't know much about what's happening with you and T, but what was Mike talking about this morning when he said he drugged you?"

Melanie crossed her arms and let out a small laugh.

"After we hit that jewelry store, I stayed with him in Sandy Shores. Story goes I got a little unruly, so he doped me up to keep the situation under wraps. Who knows what really went down, y'know? So much has happened since I met you guys. Sometimes I forget which way is up and which way is down. Everything is a whirlwind of morals and recoil that leaves my hands shaking for days."

"I get what you saying. Just be careful with those two."

"If you're watching me, who's watching you?"

"Remember I mentioned Lamar?" he cracked a small smile. "I've been rocking with that nigga since the sandbox. He's a little dense himself, but he keeps my head on tight. I'll have to introduce y'all to each other someday. He'd eat yo' ass up."

She laughed.

"Just don't let Trevor find out."


	20. Effed Up

"Good morning, Mr. De Santa."

"I don't know if I'd say 'good', but it is morning, doc," Michael explained as he made his way inside his therapist's condominium.

"Close the door and have a seat. How're you?"

"You looking for the truth this time?"

"Whatever works best for you," Dr. Friedlander airily replied.

"Well," his patient plopped down in the middle of the ugly brown sofa situated opposite him. "I'm fucked."

"Aren't we all?"

"Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"

"Of course I am. Michael, I always listen. You seem on edge. What's been going on since the last time we sat down and chat?" Dr. Friedlander questioned.

"What hasn't been going on? I relapsed. I owe a guy a lotta money after pulling his house down a cliff. I've been picking up hookers and drinking. I even shot another guy at a party."

"Ah, the one just north of here? In Chumash? I heard about it on the radio yesterday. That was you?"

"It might have been."

"Why? Did he provoke you? We both know you're prone to acting out when you're feeling threatened or angry."

"Not in the slightest," Michael chuckled and scratched his cheek. "I'm working for the government."

Dr. Friedlander simply shared a stare. Michael didn't bat an eyelash.

"But before that, Amanda left. I guess that's more of your kind of business. The kids went with her. I think they're staying at her sister's."

"She must have found out about you and the hookers."

He shook his head, both eyes cast down on the wedding band around his finger.

"Nope. She actually thinks me and Melanie are screwing around."

"Let's take a deep breath and backtrack a second," Dr. Friedlander suggested as he crossed his legs. "How do you feel about your family abandoning you?"

Michael shrugged a shoulder and sighed.

"I know I'm supposed to feel something, but I don't right now. There's so much happening in my life, it's like I can't. I…love Amanda, Jim, and Trace, but their lack of presence hasn't exactly thrown a wrench in any of my affairs either."

"Perhaps if your family's return was guaranteed once you ceased your murderous, thievish tendencies, you would give it all up," he suggested, slightly cocking his head to the side. Michael immediately shook his head.

"That would guarantee shit."

"Pick one or the other: your family or your…job. I'll use the term lightly."

Michael grimaced at his therapist, his hands clenching into fists in his lap. He pointed his trigger finger at the man across from him and leaned forward.

"You have no idea the things I've done to get to where I am now. I can't just give all that up with the wave of a fucking wand. I tried to give it up once before and it followed me. It followed me right across the fucking continent and no amount of fucking name changes could help me. It showed up on my doorstep all the rage," he drew back and relaxed in his seat again. "Besides, I'm back at it in a damn full swing. I owe people money. I got the FIB breathing down my neck. I've got shit to teach my protégés and I've got a psychotic best friend probably planning my second funeral right now. It's like I fell asleep for a while but now I'm wide awake."

"But isn't it a nightmare? Wouldn't you rather just dream?"

Michael waited a moment before leaning back in the chair.

"No. I wouldn't trade it for the world."

"You'd be surprised the things people do for money, Michael," Dr. Friedlander chimed. "Or maybe you already know."

"Am I paying you to help me or criticize me?"

"I can't help you if you won't help yourself first, Michael."

The patient rolled his eyes.

"You sound like my wife with all this self-help nonsense."

"And your wife thinks you have a thing with this Melanie character. Melanie is the newly recruited protégé we briefly talked about last time, yes?"

"Yeah, and I've turned this kid into a… I don't know. I'm thoroughly convinced she's suffering from fucking Stockholm syndrome, for which I'll take full responsibility. It was my idea to get her in the first place."

"You said Melanie was a paramedic?"

"What about it?"

Dr. Friedlander shrugged.

"Maybe she could offer additional help. Coping mechanisms, words of advice, perhaps a decent medication for me to prescribe you?"

"Out of the question," Michael declared. "If I wanted sound assistance from her, I'd have asked for it before I dragged her into this mess."

"You sound as though you regret doing so," Dr. Friedlander noted.

"I do, sort of. The day me and Trevor got her… Well she seemed so enthused when she climbed out of the back of that ambulance. Don't get me wrong, she's still pretty enthused when it comes to work. It just ain't the same face. I recognize that face anywhere. Deep down, she's starting to hate herself. This is gonna sound crazy," Michael started up, shifting the entire mood in the room. "But part of me hopes that she and Trevor actually do hit it off, just so I know someone would be keeping an eye on her around the clock."

"Are you worried she'll go to the police?"

"Nah, worse. She wouldn't. If she was going to, she would've done it right after our first encounter."

"You're confident in your abilities to keep her under wraps."

"I read people. She's fine."

"But your best friend-"

"Hey! I'm risking it all for the people I care about. You get no say so in this shit."

Dr. Friedlander smiled to himself, sitting back in his chair.

"Michael, breathe. I just want to make sure you have all the answers to the questions you aren't addressing."

"Gee. Thanks, doc," he snapped, standing and starting for the door.

"See if you could give Melanie my card, tell her to give me a call if she's ever feeling hopeless or suffocated."

"Right? If you ain't helping me, I'm not sure what you can do for her," Michael explained, taking the card anyway. Dr. Friedlander shook his head.

"You're getting close, Mr. De Santa. Just keep pushing. I was only thinking of your friends. Oh, and Michael? Your insurance ran out. You'll have to pay in cash or…"

"Of course," Michael sighed, withdrawing his wallet from the pocket of his dress pants. He shoved a wad of bills in his therapist's direction and left the condo.


	21. Heart In the Pipes

_**Here, take some emotions. :)**_

* * *

The sound of a man screaming jolted Melanie out of her sleep. She lie on her back, her eyes boring into the ceiling. Despite his lack of presence, it was the second time that night Ferdinand Karimov's wails had echoed in her ears. Reaching over, she swiped her phone up from the mess of blankets to squint against the screen.

Several e-mails, a text from Franklin, and a voicemail from Trevor glared back in her face. She clicked the lone voicemail then put the phone to her ear.

"I'll assume you're trying to sleep and you're not being a dick by purposefully ignoring me," he proclaimed in a tired and agitated tone. "Uh, yeah. Call back when you hear this."

She typed out a quick "Yeah, I'm okay" to Franklin before tucking the phone back under the blanket. She could still hear whimpers and the beeping of the heartrate monitor. It's not like she wasn't used to hearing all sorts of things... She sighed, rolling over onto her side. She was an accomplice to a crime so sadistic. Wait. Was it a crime? Government workers put them up to it? She tried closing her eyes again, but a knock on her bedroom door snapped her upright against the mattress.

"I have a gun!" she called, quickly snatching open her bedside drawer and snatching up the 9mm Rick from Ammu-Nation had sold her. As the door swung open, she closed both eyes and pulled the trigger, but the bolt didn't swing forward.

"You live in Central Los Santos but you keep the safety on your gun? I thought I taught you better than that?" came Trevor's voice. She peeked at him leaning in the doorjamb. Dropping her shoulders, she set the weapon in her lap and gathered the sheets tighter against her frame.

"How did you get in here? Is that blood on your shirt?" she squinted in the dim room. She was growing tired seeing of seeing crimson.

"Roadkill mishap on the way back from Blaine County," he claimed.

"Is that where you took Mr. K? Is that what you meant when you said you would take care of him?" she snapped. He glanced down at the gun still sitting pretty in her lap.

"Course not. I'm not gonna let some racquetball playing, starched khaki wearing fruitcake tell me how to do my job. I dropped our friend off at the airport."

She frowned.

"C'mon, Mel Don't go frigid on me," he pleaded with open arms. "I promise, on my mother, the guy is safe."

Her eyes flicked back down to the stained shirt.

"Jeez… It bothering you _that_ much?" he declared. He rumbled from in his throat as he snatched the shirt over his head. Her tired eyes slowly surveyed the ink and scars on his frame before looking away.

"All gone," he tossed the shirt in a basket in the corner.

"You still didn't tell me how you got in or who the blood belonged to."

"Window over the kitchen sink was unlocked and I pulled up on some Ballas outside the strip clum. I ain't serving anyone who tried killing my girlfriend," he explained.

"Did you just refer to me as your girlfriend?" her head cocked to the side. "What do you know about me? What do I know about you?"

"Okay… This is not the woman who kissed me the night before…"

"No, it's not," Melanie snapped. "What did we do yesterday?"

"Work," he answered with a shrug. She let out a scoff.

"Work-"

"Yeah. WORK. Something I've been doing much longer than you. It's WORK. You got a problem with the WORK we do? Let me guess. You can deal with shooting hillbillies and robbing jewelry stores and destroying legal documents, but a little torture porn is out of your league, huh?"

"Trevor, we did it _for_ the Federal Investigation Bureau."

"Trust me, angel, when I say I'm sure they got more work were that came from."

"What makes you say that?" she inquired. He paused in his train of thought.

"Michael started this shit. Trust me, I just know and I ain't as happy about it either."

She finally slipped the gun back in its drawer.

"Let's go back to this girlfriend business," he suggested, growing comfortable. She slipped from the bed. His gaze darted to her bare legs as she stepped into a pair of sweatpants.

"What about it?"

"Uh, you bought me flowers? We kissed?"

She didn't say anything and he laughed.

"OH," he shifted his feet as she began to gather her hair in a ponytail. "I know what this is. You want Uncle T, but you refuse to move first."

She laughed this time, catching his eyes in the mirror.

" _Uncle T?_ That's not gonna fly here," she remarked.

"Trevor's struggling here, kid. He usually doesn't do things this way," he complained.

"Enlighten me," she raised a brow.

"Well…" he took several more steps into the quaint room. "If it were up to me, you'd be bent over my knee begging for Uncle T to give you the best three minutes of your life."

"Uncle T should take it down a few notches before one of his balls comes up missing," she trialed. He let out an awkward chuckle and rubbed his hands together, resisting the urge to grab the woman by the throat and make her eat her words.

"You can't expect to immediately court a woman like me without taking me out to dinner first," she claimed, finally turning her back to the mirror and facing him straight on.

"There, uh…" he sputtered then peered down at the calculator watch on his wrist. "There ain't nothing serving at four in the morning."

"I know," she quietly said. He let out a deep breath.

"Why don't you quit beating around the bush and talk about what's really the matter?" he urged.

"Do you like what we do?"

"Fuck yeah," he boomed, making her jump slightly.

"How is what we did earlier not eating you from the inside out?"

"Survival of the fittest. You either let that shit eat you up or you eat it. That, and drugs," he finished.

"Drugs?" she raised an eyebrow as she brushed past and started up the hall. "You told me you quit."

"Bahbahbahbahbah. Meth, I quit. I got some other shit that'll mellow you out."

"This yours?" she kicked at a dusty, green duffel bag sitting in the middle of her living room.

"Yeah. I thought maybe 'cause of what happened the other night you'd be alright with me here…?" he tried.

"I haven't decided yet."

"Take these and sleep on it," he urged, holding out two white pills in the palm of his extended hand. She curiously looked to them.

"Antidepressant, the other is a sleeping pill. I know what we did was more of my league than yours, but I told you lose them morals, didn't I?" he tried with a toothy grin.

"Is this what you really say it is?"

"I'm done doping you up against your will. Scout's honor," he put up his right hand. She watched him for a second then took the medications. He unzipped his duffel and pulled out a six pack of beer.

"Only Trevor Philips," she sighed with a shake of her head. Melanie gulped the pills down with a swallow of alcohol before laying back on the couch and switching on the television.

"Don't act unimpressed."

"Was that your first time?" he asked a few minutes later.

"First time what?" she asked, prying her eyes away from the glowing television. He pursed his lips. She shook her cloudy head clear.

"Oh. Well, yeah. I've heard men scream before, but this…this was a different kind of sound. Full of agony. You're very rude," she answered. She plucked at a flyaway strand dangling from the bottom of her t-shirt.

"You're gonna have nightmares," he warned. She giggled once. Her chest itched and the giggle gave way to a chuckle. Her head felt incredibly light now. She leaned back against the sofa cushion and let out a deep breath.

"Whatever," she sighed, changing the channel. Weazel News continued on about the Gruppe Sechs robbery weeks ago. She shook her head.

"That...was an interesting night," Trevor claimed, plopping himself down beside her.

"Oh yeah?" she purred. "What happened after I left?"

"Bullets EVERYWHERE. It was fucking beautiful. Shot down two LSPD birds. Lot of cops didn't make it back to their families that night," he remarked. She slapped his shoulder.

"Hey, I used to respond to dispatch calls like that. Breaking the news is much harder than you think."

"Try me."

"What?"

"Tell me my wife died. Lay it on me," he urged. She hesitated, unsure of how comfortable she felt toying with emotions such as Trevor's.

"Mr. Philips… I'm afraid there's been an accident. You may want to take a seat before I-"

"I'm already sitting. What? What's the problem, doc?" he interjected. She rolled her eyes then slipped back into character.

"Your wife… She was in a head-on collision on the freeway. We're not sure if she's going to make it."

"Make it?" he echoed. "What do you mean 'make it'? Make me dinner?"

Melanie groaned at his antics until a lightbulb flipped on over her head.

"She's suffering internal bleeding and we're not sure if the baby is okay-"

"Pump your brakes there, Satan."

"Yes, the baby. You wife is pregnant. She hadn't told you? I'm so sorry, Mr. Philips. We're doing all we can-"

"I said pump the bakes, Sally Sadistic! People who say I have issues clearly haven't had a drug-induced conversation with Melanie Cutlass. Maybe Michael should give you the number to his therapist," he complained. She beamed, feeling accomplished. He was part human.

After a few minutes, she finally switched positions and rest her head on his shoulder. The corners of his mouth twitched with a satisfied smile. Her head felt incredibly light now.

"Feeling better?" Trevor's voice asked from somewhere.

"Mhm. Hey Trev?" her eyelids were heavy and her voice came much quieter now. He was so warm. She snaked an arm around his, his bare arm warming the skin of her face.

"Yeah, sweet pea?"

"You can stay here," she revealed before settling in position. A part of him relaxed, content with what was happening. There was another part of him that wanted to run away back to Sandy Shores and smoke until his fingers went numb. He let out a sigh, staring right through the television in the dimly lit room. Her breathing shallowed itself out. He scoffed.

Despite the blood and the cursing and the torture, she never left the room. He was sort of twisted for enjoying it. Now, he was more worried about the fact that he was even taking her feelings into consideration and sharing medication. A small snore escaped her lips. Bending his neck, he peeked down at her face and felt a pain in his chest.

"Yeah, I get pretty tired after a long day of watching someone get tortured too. How about you?" he mumbled as he slipped an arm under her knees before untangling the other and slipping it under her shoulders. "The world's a fucking ridiculous place. It's a shame we helpless pigs have to live in it and fucking ruin it."

As he rose from the sofa to stand, she shifted in his arms and nestled her head in the crook of his neck. He swallowed hard. Her scent wafted up his nostrils. A mixture of some tea and perfume he'd grown to love and revel in whenever he got the chance. He quietly growled and continued toward her bedroom.

"Why me? Why the fuck me? Why not Franklin?" he sighed, laying her down on top of the covers. She rolled over onto her side, hugging a pillow to her face.

"Trev?"

He stopped in the doorway.

"Hmph?" he grunted in response.

"Don't leave. I can still…hear him…" and just like that she was out again. He scratched his scalp and rubbed his nose. Only when her light snoring filled the room again did he move to sit on the edge of her bed. He ran a hand over his face before glancing back at her sleeping frame.


	22. Revelations

"Where's Trevor? What happened to you?" Franklin asked as Melanie trudged into his home a little over three hours later. Franklin went to shut the door behind her, but the drug dealing psychopath stuck his foot in the doorjamb.

"Here, you prick," he interjected.

"You guys ruin everything. Does anyone sleep anymore or is it just me? What was so important it couldn't wait?" she complained as she stormed into the living room.

"The hell happened to your face?" Franklin shot Trevor's new, lightly bruised left eye a peculiar look. The man opened his mouth to curse, but resorted to a tone barely above a whisper.

"Never wake a sleeping Melanie."

"You look like hell," Michael interjected, rising from his place on the white couch. She flipped him the bird without a word then threw herself down in a beanbag chair against the row of glass windows. Michael looked to Trevor and winced.

"Can I help you?" he growled, crossing his tattooed arms and leaning against the brick wall a flat screen television hung from.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say she socked you right in the-"

"Shut it up," Melanie snapped. The entire room was silent. She slipped the sunglasses off her face and into her messy hair, causing all three men to wince as she revealed her red eyes, puffy with a level of tiredness she had rarely experienced before. Not even double shifts at Pillbox Hill Medical Center were as draining as ripping and running with the unholy trinity through the dusty hills of Blaine County and dark alleys of Los Santos.

"Where's your coffee pot?" she grumbled.

"Damn. Over there," Franklin pointed off to his kitchen. "Long night?"

She started to stand, but Trevor put up a hand.

"I got it."

Michael made a face and pulled a complete one-eighty degree turn on the couch to watch his best friend politely fetch a mug for the only woman in the room.

"This is new," he retorted.

"Why are we here?" Trevor called from across the room, stirring milk and sugar into a mug of black coffee.

"Well," Franklin rubbed his hands together. "I had a breakthrough a few days ago with Lamar and thought I'd finally share."

"Lay it on us."

"Aight. You see, the FIB got us doing dirty work for them. Assassinating people. Stealing evidence. Torture interrogation. Shit they would get in hot water for doing themselves," Franklin explained. "But what they doing for us?"

"Keeping us out of prison?" Michael tried, lips tight and eyes still on Trevor.

"Man, besides that. I mean, what's gon' stop them from digging up some shady ass evidence, pinning those crimes under our name, and locking us all up when it's all said and done?" Franklin questioned.

"And I gotta ask, what the fuck is going on with you two?" Franklin demanded as Trevor handed Melanie her beverage.

"It's-"

"Tuh tuh tuh!" he spoke up over her. "None of your damn business."

She nestled deeper into the seat, sipping her drink.

"So…what're you proposing?" she checked.

"He's obviously proposing we take them out before they take us out," Trevor stated. "Which doesn't sound half bad to me."

"Are you crazy?" Melanie interrupted. "You're gonna take out the Haines and Norton? They're federal workers."

"No, not Dave. He's a friend. Haines is his boss. He's our problem," Michael explained. "And not just him. We gotta hit the entire department."

"Did I hear you correctly? The three of you want to take out the entire FIB?" she anxiously tried.

" _Three_? You ain't exempt, cupcake. You've got blood on your hands too," Trevor grunted. Her stomach dropped.

"But before we even think about that, we gotta pull one last job," Trevor started.

"One _last_ job? Like what?" Franklin inquired, curious.

"The Big One."

"Trevor, no-"

"What's he talking about?" Melanie turned to Michael as he furiously shook his head.

"He's talking about the Union Depository."

She choked on her drink. Franklin switched off the flat screen television and ran a hand over his face.

"You wanna hit…The Union Depository?" he repeated back in utter disbelief.

"Do you not?" Trevor inquired, his hands planted firmly on his hips.

"It's…something him and I have been ruminating over for years," Michael sighed. "We just never had enough trustworthy people on our team, but now…"

"Oh no," Melanie staggered to her feet as two sets of eyes turned toward her. "I won't and you all shouldn't. Are you out of your minds? The UD is the biggest fucking bank on the west coast!"

"Exactly. If we do this, the payout will be enough for us all to go into hiding or take up an early retirement," Michael explained.

"Hiding? Retirement?" Franklin echoed. "I'm not old enough for either of those options and fuck knows prison is a part of the list too!"

"You wouldn't have to work another day of your life," Trevor explained.

"I didn't mind my normal, civil job before you came along," Franklin remarked.

"And I didn't plan on living out the remainder of my life in hiding," she snapped, taking a seat in the bean bag again.

"If we can pull it off correctly, you shouldn't have to. None of us should," Michael explained.

" _Should_ …" Franklin reminded.

"Lest will help us out with the specs and we'll get an extra gunman then size everything up before we even point a finger at that bank. It'll be easy, like the bank in Paleto Bay."

"That's where I ended up getting shot," Franklin incredulously snapped. "And Melanie got roped into this bullshit."

"It was a simple miscalculation on the sheriff's reaction time, but the payout was-"

"The payout was 4K each, two bullet wounds, and a kidnapped paramedic turned criminal. Man, I don't know if we should even-"

A shrill whistle pierced the air, silencing the trio as they started babbling one over the other.

"I don't know about you guys," Melanie spoke up. "But I'm not in a thinking mood at the moment. After what I've seen, I wouldn't doubt the power this group has in pulling off anything…"

Michael and Trevor's faces lit up.

"But this is the _Union Depository_. Even the guards driving the armored trucks with the bank's logo printed on the side wear bulletproof vests and carry nightsticks. Don't act like you don't remember the security's response time that night we hit that one truck in Banning. And we can't act like we don't suspect them having extra security or some type of eyes on us. Michael, you're in witness protection. Franklin, an ex-convict. Trevor, you're not even American."

Michael chuckled.

"Maybe if we talk about this another day with more information, and better coffee, we can get some gears turning."

"She's right," Franklin said. "I don't know about y'all, but we've been wide open lately and my head ain't exactly caught up with me."

"I've gotta get a suit tailored anyway," Michael sighed, rising to his feet. "You'll all need one for the job, by the way."

"And I've got, grrr, drugs to sell," Trevor grunted. Franklin walked everyone to the door then locked his house up behind them. A dog barked somewhere.

"You got a minute?" Michael quietly asked as he slightly tugged at Melanie's sleeve. She followed him to his car parked in front of the garage. Trevor crossed his arms and leaned against the trunk of Melanie's car on the opposite side of the street.

"I admire you, kid," Michael complimented.

"Oh, don't start," she groaned as she turned away. "I barely contribute."

"No, I'm being serious. You've done good. Maybe a little more practice with a gun and we'll be set straight. I appreciated your enthusiasm in there, too," his voice dropped lower. "I just don't want you to get hurt. I'm an old man. I don't want you getting hung up with a charge because you were caught busting into the Union Depository with an old fart like me, a meth dealer, and a gangbanger."

"So you don't think the UD can be done?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"No. I-"

"You think I'll cost us the job?" she leaked. Michael sighed.

"No! No," he lowered his voice, catching Trevor in his glance around. "I just…think you should go. Take what you have and get out before it's too late. I've done a lot of things. Things I'm not proud of, all because I had to. You don't have to. You don't have to grow old, filled to the brim with remorse and regret and nightmares of rage."

"Let me get this straight. First, you tell me if I start working for you, there's no way out. Now, just as we start plotting the biggest job of all our lives, you're telling me I can walk away scotch free? After being drugged, interrogating a man, infiltrating a government agency, murdering some hillbillies and robbing a jewelry store, you're telling me we're all square?" she tried.

"Ahem!" Trevor cleared his throat.

"Give me a second!" she called over her shoulder. Michael frowned, the lines in his forehead deepening. Suddenly, Franklin's front door reopened with his phone pressed against his ear.

"Yo, Trevor. I need your muscle with a little job," he called. Trevor loped back across the street. He momentarily paused to kiss Melanie's forehead before he disappeared behind Franklin's door closing again. Michael shook his head.

"You and T. I don't get it."

"Don't change the subject. It's not yours to get," she corrected him. He put up his hands.

"Touchy subject. Okay, you're right. You're right. You've withstand a hell of a journey so far. Just promise me you'll think about my offer? You've got plenty of time," Michael claimed. "The Big One just might be too big."

"I'll think about it," she said turning on the heel of her flats and starting back to her car.

* * *

Loud knocking came from the front door of Melanie's apartment, rousing her from the drugs she were trying so desperately to sleep off once again. At first, she lie awake on the mattress, eyes sealed shut. She waited for the familiar sound of footsteps padding down the sidewalk, but only got the sound of her front door squeaking open. She gasped, snatched her pistol from underneath the mattress and staggered from her bedroom. Tiptoeing down the hall, a groan and hissing of breath pricked at her ears.

"Get him in the kitchen!" came Franklin's voice.

"How'd you get in here?" she asked, showing herself around the corner. Trevor and Franklin towed a third, unfamiliar man through the living room and into the kitchen.

"Since you didn't like me breaking into your place, I got a key made a little while back," Trevor explained. He whipped out a chair and sat down the stranger.

"Man, y'all being all dramatic and shit and not introducing me to the gun-totin' honey in the room. I'm straight," he insisted.

"Shut up, nigga. You bleeding like a hog," Franklin urged. "Melanie, this is my dumbass best friend, Lamar. I was hoping you could patch him up like you did me."

"Melanie? Melanie like a melody in my ears. Let me see what you working with. Know what I'm sayin'?" Lamar taunted. She rolled her eyes, growing more agitated with each passing second. She placed her gun on the table and stood in front of Lamar. She grabbed his chin, taking in his blackened eye, bloody nose and sweaty face.

"What happened?" she inquired.

"I got popped in my arm, but I be a'ight if yo' fine ass kiss it and make it better. Yo' lips look like they made of gold and honey," he remarked with a lick of his own lips. She turned around to Franklin who shook his head. Trevor looked like he as though he were on the verge of having a brain aneurysm.

"Could you be a little professional?" Franklin asked Lamar, noting Trevor's worsening expression.

"You a terrible wingman, Franklin. You big boss dogging around with them creepy white dudes and done lost yo' sense of humor. I'm just tryna get in where I can fit in, na'mean? So Melanie, are you-"

"What about you Frank?" she dismissed the new man's attempt at seduction.

"Nah, I'm straight. I think Trevor might need some medical attention though," he remarked, a smile creeping into his tone. She turned and looked him over.

"You hit anywhere, Mr. Philips?" she tried.

"Uhh. I'm the one leaking over here. Yo, missy," Lamar urged. She ignored him, standing on her toes to look Trevor eye to eye. His expression softened to mischief as one of his heavy hands came down hard on her backside. She yelped and blushed.

"I will end him," he whispered.

"I got it," she whispered back, kissing him once.

"Oh, it's like that?" Lamar asked incredulously. "Ol' crazy dude already bagged his cut. My bad."

"Okay, Mr. Lamar," Melanie interjected before he could start an argument he wasn't prepared for. "You ever had at-home surgery before?"

"Shit, no. Why?"

"It hurts. Roll up your sleeve."

He shimmied from his green button up and rolled up the sleeve of his black t-shirt, exposing the wound in his upper arm. Trevor switched on the light and ceiling fan.

"This is smaller than what I dealt with from Franklin. What ate you up, Frank?" she asked, popping the seal of the emergency medical kit and withdrawing a pair of tongs.

"Who knows? Bullets were coming from every direction that day," he explained.

"I might've done it by accident, now that I think about it," Trevor added. She laughed and Franklin sucked his teeth.

"That's fucked up. You just gon' let him do you like that, homie?" Lamar piped up.

"It was a joke, slick," Trevor growled. Melanie slid pale gray gloves over her hands and threaded a curved needle.

"What're you gonna do with that?" Lamar asked, growing nervous.

"After I withdraw the foreign object lodged into your arm, I have to suture then bandage the wound. Sit up straight," she demanded.

"You ain't got any numbing medicine or nothing?"

"Nope."

She started forward with the tongs, but he shied away.

"You licensed for this? You a nurse or some shit?" he interrogated, eyes narrow and eyebrows knit together.

"A paramedic," she rolled her eyes. "Sit still."

She grabbed his arm with one hand and slid the ends of the tongs into the hole. He winced, his hand clenching into a fist in his lap.

"You're gonna feel some slight discomfort," she warned before tugging around the piece of metal. She pressed her lips into a thin line, working against the body's tough muscle and slippery fat.

"Least you getting the right procedure. I got someone's fingers swimming around in me," Franklin complained.

"You're not making this no better," Lamar groaned. The bloodied bullet shone beneath the light before she dropped it into the wad of tissue on the table.

"Here comes the hard point," she warned, picking up the needle and thread.

"Hey Frank, come hold my hand," Lamar chuckled.

"I'll hold it," Trevor shot back.

"Nah, crazy dude. I think I'll- Shit, what the fuck!" Lamar wailed as she slapped alcohol over the open wound. He gripped the hem of her shirt in a tight fist, wriggling against the tugging and pulling at his skin as she stitched together the cut.

"You might be a bitch, but you go hard as fuck," he sighed once she was done. She cut the thread and pressed a few bandages over the sutures.

"Thanks, I guess. Don't pluck at it. Don't take the bandages off until this time tomorrow. Frank, bring him back in about a week so I can take out the stitches. Until then, get this one out of my apartment," she warned, snapping off the gloves and tossing the bullet in the wadded tissue into the trash.

"Hey, can I bring some of the homies to her when they need help?" she heard Lamar asking Franklin on their way out of the door. With a deep sigh, she washed her hands in her kitchen sink. Without a word, Trevor came up from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist and bending over to kiss her temple.

"You can let it out now," he advised. "I saw it building in your face."

"Lamar sure had a mouthful," she complained.

"I'll rip his tongue out if it'll make you feel better."

She smiled, leaning back against his chest and taking in a deep breath.

"How did I get here?" she quietly asked. "From professionally saving lives to fishing bullets out of some of the city's most wily criminals. What did Franklin even have you doing?"

He grabbed her hips, spun her around and sat her on the counter.

"His buddy Lamar is a fuckin' idiot. I ain't never seen nothing like it. Kid set up a deal on Grove Street, but Frank didn't feel right about it. Long story short, I got 'em shot at but I saved Lamar from losing a lot of money."

"Well 'crazy dude'," she mocked. "It's good to see you put your powers to good use. Can I go to bed this time?"

"Anything you say," he hurriedly slung her over his shoulder and marched from the kitchen. "A good evening's sleep. I promise, no interruptions."


	23. Monkey Business

_**I'm so bad at updating in a timely manner. Also, the last chapter was missing an entire paragraph in the intro because I don't proofread but I fixed it. Sorry if it confused anyone. Anyone heard of the game Until Dawn? It's only like a 7-hour gameplay, but there are supposedly 9 different endings. I highly recommend it if you're into "choose your own fate" horror games.**_

* * *

"Answer it already."

"It's no one important. It'll stop ringing."

"They've called twice now," she complained against the warmth of his bare chest.

"Grrr. Trevor Philips Industries… Mikey? What the fuck."

"Michael!" Melanie snatched away his phone. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Yeah, kid. Put T back on. This is important," he insisted. She tossed him the device.

"You tryna get me killed, slick?" Trevor spoke up. He soothingly rubbed the woman's back as she settled against him again.

"Not at all, pal. I need you and Melanie at Cape Catfish within the hour. Frank's on the way," Michael instructed.

"We gotta move," Trevor sighed, tugging at her t-shirt.

"Now?" she complained.

"I'll see you guys in a few," Michael concluded before hanging up. Trevor slid from the bed and stretched.

"Early bird gets the worm," he clapped his hands together and let out a wolf-like howl toward the ceiling. She tossed back the blanket and started wriggling into a pair of jeans.

"You got a couple hours in. Better than nothin'."

He could feel her glaring from across the dim room.

"What'd he say?" she plopped onto the edge of the bed, tugging on a pair of black and white running shoes.

"Not much. Just to meet him and Frank out in Blaine County. Ready to go?"

She paused and switched on the lamp, catching him just as he slipped his pocketknife into the back pocket of his cuffed, black jeans.

"You gonna need that at two in the morning?"

"Sweet cheeks, I always need it. You'd be surprised the snakes you'll meet and when you'll meet them – if you ain't already met 'em," he explained.

"Don't be cryptic before the sun is up," she complained.

"Do you trust Michael?" he asked. The question came from left field. She started to answer, but there was something in his voice that stuck.

"Don't you?" she fired back, but she almost immediately regretted it once she turned around. He stood on the other side of the bed with his legs slightly apart and his hands clenched into tight fists by his sides. His eyes were as wild as they were the first day they met.

"Do you trust Michael?" he asked again, slower this time.

"I-I don't know," she noted the wild look in his eyes. "Should I?"

"No," he finally answered, snapping from his trance and pulling a faded burgundy and yellow polo over his head. She swallowed hard, gears turning in her mind. He stepped into his boots and slapped the top of her doorframe on his exit out of the room.

"We takin' your car or mine?"

"Uh… Yours," she called, following after him. He loped across the street to enter the apartment complex's car park. She followed several paces behind and whipped out her phone. Up until now, she had been okay with being left in the dark. Something had always been bothering Trevor, and now that she knew it regarded his supposed best friend, she wanted answers. However, she knew she couldn't be obvious about it. She clicked up a few slots past Michael's name and highlighted Franklin's instead. After glancing up then down the dim street, she started typing her message. WE NEED TO TALK. Send.

"What's taking you?"

She bumped into Trevor who was peering down his nose at her, a single eyebrow raised.

"Reading LifeInvader updates," she quickly let out, tucking her phone into her back pocket. "C'mon."

"You trust me, right?" he inquired, grabbing her arm as she tried hurrying past. The wild look in his eyes was gone, his amber gaze replaced with the familiar restlessness and harsh eagerness.

"Considering everything that's happened, for the most part…" she looked away. "I just wish you guys would quit keeping secrets from me. I haven't kept any from you."

"Much appreciated," he patted her roughly on the backside, sending her right into the musty car park.

"You'll know the truth as soon as I do, princess," he claimed.

"What has Michael done? I don't understand your apprehensiveness."

He whirled around without warning. She bumped into him once more, but he took her hand in his before noisily kissing her fingers.

"I said, you'll know when I do. Get your sweet rack in. We gotta hit the road."

* * *

The unmistakable sound of Trevor's heavy duty truck barreling down a dirt road roused Michael to his feet.

"About time," he chimed in from his spot at the start of the dock. The Bodhi kicked up dirt as it came to a hard stop at the end of the road. Trevor hopped from the vehicle first then Melanie, a sincerely agitated look on her face.

"What're we doing way out here?" she was the first to ask. She shot the broken down and abandoned boats surrounding them cautious looks.

"I'll explain once everyone gets here," Michael stated with a wave of his hand. Franklin pulled up behind the Bodhi in his matte black Fugitive.

"What's crackin'?" he greeted, approaching the group. "Aye Melanie. I got your-"

She quickly shook her head and put a finger to her lips. Trevor glanced over his shoulder, but she recovered with a grin that nearly made her eyes close.

"Uhh, the gang's all here. What's the dealio?" he pressed, shaking her off.

"Not yet. We gotta wait for Dave and Steve."

"Of-fucking-course we're scraping shit up for your boyfriend's at the Bureau again!" Trevor declared. He kicked up thick clouds of dirt.

"If I would've told you, you wouldn't have come way out here," Michael insisted.

"Doubt it," Franklin claimed. He stepped up to Michael and the two shared a fist bump. Trevor continued muttering, his hands deep in his pockets and the toes of his boots still kicking. Melanie took a few steps back and leaned against his truck.

"I've been wondering. Have you heard from your family?" Franklin asked. Michael rocked on the soles of his boat shoes, his steely eyes cast out on the dark ocean.

"Yeah. Sure," he started before giving way to a sigh. "Nah. That's a lie. I haven't heard a fucking thing."

"Damn. That's fucked up, man."

"Yeah, well…not gonna matter. We're all gonna be dead in about a half hour anyway."

"Is that so?" Trevor interjected, teeth bared. "You know Mel? Frank? If there's one thing that you're gonna learn from being around us…"

"Plead fuckin' insanity. Then they can't fry ya," Michael interrupted. Franklin frowned. Melanie shook her head. Trevor started up again, agitation rising.

"If you want somethin' done, you come to the busy man," he gestured to himself then to his best friend. "This rich fuck is useless."

"Ho-Hold on, man," Franklin restrained Michael as he started for Trevor with fists clenched. Melanie tucked away her phone and stepped toward the trio.

"Can y'all knock this shit off?" the younger man urged.

"Your boys are here, Michael," Melanie added. The quarrel quieted as Steve neared the group, running his hands down the length of Franklin's ride.

"Hey. Where's the other two?"

"What other two?"

"We told you to bring along six. This is a six man job," he explained.

"No you didn't."

"Dave did," he pointed back to his partner.

"No. Dave didn't," Michael claimed.

"You said you'd do it," Dave directed to Steve.

"That is a frickin' lie!" Steve grew red in the face. "I do not get things wrong."

"Alright, great. Then we're out of here. Fuck it. Let's go," Michael started away until Steve touched his arm.

"You four can do it alone," he suggested.

"And die? Fuck you! You do your own dirty work."

"Hey, I do my dirty work every day! Keeping the country safe from scum like you!"

"And you doing a great job, sir," Franklin sarcastically applauded.

"Hey. You want this job done? Then come with us, huh? Come on," Trevor urged. "Come on, Mr. Leisure Wear! Mr. Depressed Accountant! Let's go save America!"

"Who the hell are we saving it from this time?" Melanie piped up. Steve turned to her with a smile on his face and his hands planted on his hips.

"This is the real deal. My sources are convinced there's a plot in International Affairs, y'know 'The Agency', and they're using this facility to make a serious nerve toxin."

"Bullshit!" Trevor chortled from the water's edge, where he was skipping stones. Steve continued on as though he was never cut short.

"Which they plan, in their mind blowing insanity, to let a major terrorist release on a metropolitan area so they can continue to get funding. Nothing increases funding for fighting terrorism more than successful acts of terrorism!"

"So let me get this straight," Trevor brushed past Franklin to step up to the federal workers.

"No. No-no. No. No. There is no getting this straight. That's the point. Now we're doing this! You two," Steve pointed to Franklin and Melanie. "Are on getaway. Fuck off and make it happen. Michael and Philips, you're with us. What size flipper you wear?"

"Well fuck you too," Franklin hissed at the agent. Melanie glanced to the four men before sliding into the Fugitive and buckling her seatbelt.

"I take it we can talk now?" Franklin suggested, putting the car in gear and reversing back onto the pavement of the road which led back to the highway. "How you holding together?"

She finally let out a deep breath she felt as though she'd been squelching since the beginning of time.

"I'm still alive is what matters. What do you know about Michael and Trevor?"

Franklin reached forward to decrease the radio's volume as Dr. Dre's _The Next Episode_ began playing.

"You mean besides the fact they're crazy as hell?" he tried.

"How'd you all meet?" she corrected.

"Well I told you I used to boost cars. I was taking back his son's car and he was laying duck in the backseat. And T? One day, Mike needed my help. When I showed up, he was just there. I ain't ask no questions. Why do you ask? Something I should be made aware of?"

"Something _we_ should know, yeah. There's some sort of unspoken hostility between the two," she explained.

"They bicker like an old married couple, but I know what you talking about. I feel it every time we're all together. Maybe you could ask Trevor about it since y'all, you know…"

She gently scoffed at his suggestion.

"Our intimacy aids me little to none in that department. I tried earlier and he said I would know the truth whenever he does and that I shouldn't trust Michael."

"Damn," Franklin cursed, slapping the steering wheel.

"What?"

"After we hit that bank truck, I took Mike out to hit a lick with me. The whole time, it was like he was speaking in metaphors. Stuff about how he hasn't been honest and how he's a fucked up individual and how he got wrapped up with them FIB dudes."

"Maybe he owes them for something," she muttered.

"I don't even wanna think about the possibilities, but here's the icing on the cake…" he sighed. "Them FIB cats… They want me to take out Trevor."

Her heart leapt into her throat.

"Nah, nah. Don't even look at me like that. You really think I'm that type of person?"

"If you're not, why would they tell you to do something like that? What the hell, Franklin? You can't do that. Not to Trevor. Not to…me," she hissed.

"I'm not. Chill. This is why I didn't wanna tell you in the first place."

"What're you gonna do?"

"I'm damn sure not killing T. If they want that shit done, they doin' it themselves. You all in love with dude and I don't want you hating me cause I… Shit," he groaned, looking down at his phone. "Where the fuck I'm supposed to find one of them?"

"One of what?"

"A cargobob," he turned the screen to her, revealing a large, camouflage helicopter. The phone buzzed again with another text from a blocked number.

"And a flatbed," she added.

"What!" he cried out.

"Take a left up here. I can get the flatbed up the freeway a ways and there may or may not be a cargobob at Trevor's airfield," she explained. Franklin shot her a look.

"I've spent quite some time out here," she claimed, eyes widening. He pulled into a small truck stop just on the right side of the freeway.

"You sure you can drive one of those?" Franklin checked.

"Can you fly a cargobob?" she shot back with a sly grin.

"Fuck you, Mel. T made me and Mike take a couple classes at the San Andreas flight school. You might need to find your way down there if we're gonna keep fucking with these FIB cats."

"Got ya, Frank. I'll see you back at the airfield. And don't think our conversation is over either."

"You just be careful and don't say nothing to T about what I told you!" he called as she slammed his door shut. She waited for him to drive away before she started for the flatbed tractor trailer parked on the edge of the quiet lot. Without a second thought to it, she tugged on the door's silver plated handle. Sure enough, the door popped open. Wasting no time, she hoisted herself into the cabin and shut then locked the heavy door behind her.

"You're a trucker. You're on the road all day. You take a break. What do you do with your keys? What do you do with your keys?" she asked herself. She tugged at the glovebox in the dashboard, but it was locked itself. After flipping down the overhead visor, a pair of keys fell into her lap.

"Winner winner chicken dinner."

She stuck the key into the ignition and gave it a turn. The engine sputtered to life and she toyed with the gears, re-familiarizing herself with the same stick shift that lie in ambulance number four back at the hospital. An odd laugh escaped her throat. She was an accomplice to crimes and doing work for the Federal Investigation Bureau now. How had she strayed so far from the path? Better yet, why the hell did they place a bounty on Trevor's head?

"Hey!"

A heavyset, balding man came waddling out of the convenience store, his arms piled high with snacks.

"Sorry, bud. Gotta save the world," she retorted, tugging the chain which sounded the loud horn. She forced the truck into gear and barreled from the lot. Her heart was pounding hard, but she didn't think about what she had just done until she was already halfway back to the airfield. She had just stolen a semi, an eighteen wheeler. As a song began to spill from the speakers, she cranked up the volume and rolled down her window. The early morning cool air was welcoming against her warm face.

" _Help me to decide, help me make the most of freedom and of pleasure! Nothing ever last forever. Everybody wants to rule the world!_ "

She switched on the headlights and blew the horn once more as a couple coyotes scrambled across the dusty road just by the airfield.

The Fugitive was parked in the hangar and the helipad was bare. She didn't bother cutting the engine as she leapt from the cabin of the flatbed. The familiar beating of helicopter blades faded in overhead. Fast approaching against the indigo sky, she could barely make out the cargobob making its way closer with a giant crate in tow. She took a couple steps back as Franklin begin piloting a shaky descent. Was it really a deadly nerve agent? She took another step back.

The left rear door of the cargobob slid open and Michael hung out of it. He gave Franklin directional hand gestures as he slowly lowered the crate onto the back of the waiting semi. She warily climbed onboard and quickly unhooked the latches suspending the crate below the bird. A few minutes later, the cargobob was back on the helipad and the men were at each other's throats again.

"You're getting wet next time," Michael told Franklin before turning to Dave. "But there won't be a next time, will there Davey? There never is."

"I'll do my best. I always try. I have to get this somewhere safe. I'll be in touch," she heard Dave say as he boarded the truck. He switched off the lights and music before he pulled away.

"What happened to Steve?" she inquired curiously.

"Fucking guy shot himself so he could pass a double agent," Michael explained.

"Maybe they'll debrief him with a twelve-inch aluminum flashlight," Trevor joked. She leapt into his arms, tightly wrapping herself around him in an embrace. His heart beat against her chest, making Franklin's words resonate louder in her head.

"Careful, Mel. Numb nuts here needs your TLC. Fucker tasered himself," Michael snitched.

"Mm, thanks," Trevor growled as Melanie dropped to the ground to look him over. "You're a real genuine piece of work. I said, I was fine."

"I don't know that. Could've did some brain damage," Michael joked.

"How do you even taser yourself?" she probed incredulously.

"Apparently, very easily," he groaned. "Frank, drop us off at my place."

"Sure thing, homie."


	24. Positive Re-enforcements

"Frank?" Melanie spoke up just as he pulled the three of them to a stop alongside Trevor's trailer in Sandy Shores.

"Can you come in for a minute?"

"Is _now_ really a good time?" he shot her a quizzical look in the rearview mirror.

"It's a perfect time," she insisted, pushing open her door and climbing from the vehicle before he could protest any further.

"Have a beer, homie. I don't think the three of us even had a get together right proper," Trevor obliged. He reached over the center console and pat his friend on the shoulder.

"I didn't take you as a proper sort of dude, but whatever you say," he agreed with a shake of his head.

"Wait," he added, one foot out of the car. "This ain't gonna be some awkward third wheel bullshit, is it?"

"Fuck no. I wouldn't do that to you. Between me and you, I need you there in case Melanie here tries to strangle me once I break some news to her."

"News like what?" Franklin grew narrow eyed. Did he know there was a hit on him? Shit. Did the diluted, older man know it was _him_ who had been asked to take him out to pasture?

"Whispering is impolite!" she called from the porch.

"That's not what you were saying when I was whispering sweet nothings in your ear last night, sugar tits!" Trevor cackled. She rolled her eyes as the men finally clambered into the trailer.

"Don't listen to him, Frankie. He's just grumpy because I still haven't put out," she announced. Trevor sent her a scowl as she hopped onto the counter and kicked her legs back and forth.

"You kidding?" Franklin laughed. "How long it's been? Damn, T?"

"Enough about my dry spell. I got somethin' I wanna talk about with the two of you," Trevor started. Melanie's eyes darted over to Franklin, who appeared to be holding his breath inside a puffed out chest. Trevor twisted the top off a beer and offered it to Franklin, but he shook his head and leaned against the wall by the door. Trevor noted his friend's uneasiness and took a swig of the beer himself.

"During this morning's anti-terrorist activities, my dearest Michael brought an important opinion to light. Sweet Mel…"

"If you're breaking up with me, I will cut off your balls and feed one to you and one to your dearest Michael," she muttered, hunched over and scrolling through her phone.

"Shit, Melanie," Franklin held back a laugh. "Looks like T is rubbing off on you."

She felt her cheeks growing hot. Trevor waved a scabbed hand.

"She's bluffin'. Anyway, before I was interrupted, Mike expressed his concern over you and our affairs," he stated. She sent him a look that screamed, excuse me?

"He doesn't want you tagging along on anymore scores. He thinks your expertise should stay along the lines of patching injuries and all that good shit."

"I appreciate his concern, but I'm not going anywhere," she shot back, immediately growing defensive. She could feel an irritation plucking at her nerves. How dare he? First, he tells her there is no way out. Then he says she can sit out The Big One. Now, he only wanted her around for the tail end of everything?

"Them FIB dudes gon' let her be dropped just like that?" Franklin asked with a snap of his fingers.

"He said he'd try talkin' to 'em," Trevor proclaimed. She viciously shook her head.

" _I'll_ talk to the FIB about where I go and what I do. Just because they're his friends doesn't forbid me from spreading a little information of my own."

"Melanie…" Franklin warned, noting a dangerous tone creeping into her voice.

"I'm not…" she stopped and sighed, feeling a lump hardening in her chest. She looked to Franklin then Trevor, then hopped down from the counter. She marched across the trailer and slammed the sliding door to the bedroom behind her.

"Don't be mad at me! I'm just the messenger!" Trevor called after her.

"He really said all that?" Franklin quietly inquired. Trevor nodded, cracking open another beer.

"What you think about it?"

"Honest?" Trevor lowered his glossy eyes to the dingy floor. He had mostly agreed with Michael's choice, his fear for the woman's well-being steadily increasing as the days went on, but there was also something in him shouting and stomping to gnore any and everything that left his friend's mouth.

"I want her safe," he finally revealed. "What we do ain't no work for a lady like her. On the other hand, if she gets her rocks off on our shit, I wanna see her happy."

"Well she doesn't seem too happy right now. I'mma go on and hit the road back to LS. You get on that," he gestured to the bedroom door. "I'll holla at you."

"Adios amigo," Trevor bid with a sigh. It wasn't until he finished his drink did he move toward his bedroom. He knocked twice before pulling back the thin wood and stepping in. Melanie lie on her side on the bed, her back to him.

"S'the matter?"

"Who does Michael think he is?"

"He's the king of playing with shit. Don't beat yourself up over it too much."

"Oooh, I just…" she sat up abruptly. "Let's go beat up the Mesa!"

"I think you need to park your rump and rest."

"Why? So just as I'm drifting to sleep, the phone can ring with some bullshit job I can't even participate in this time? Oh fuck… I even bought a gun and learned how to shoot for the sake of helping you guys."

"I said, don't beat yourself up," he repeated.

"What'd you think of his proposal?"  
He scratched his head.

"As long as you're happy, you make the choice."

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you."

His eyes caught hers and she looked away.

"I'm not leaving any of you guys," she quickly added.

"I heard what you said Melanie Cutlass. You blushing?"

Her hands flew to her cheeks.

"Screw it, 'kay? I'm allowed to have emotions like normal people," she sharply put up a finger as a smirk covered his face. "But don't act like this is a one-sided street. You've been kissing me back."

"I just wanted to taste your lip balm. Coconut, big whoop," he denounced. When she didn't protest or start a flirty debate, he spoke up.

"Mel. I voted with Mike to have you as our last resort."

"Why would…"

"I don't wanna lose the one person who actually gives a damn about me," he answered before she could start on her pouty face.

She turned her attention back to him and found a look of unfamiliar concern all over his face.

"It's so fuckin' weird," he complained, scratching his forehead. "I never gave a fuck about what people thought of me. I always walk down the street and I hear the things they say. Disgusting, worthless, miserable-"

"Trevor, stop."

He snapped from his rant, his fists relaxing by his sides.

"Ain't a woman ever looked at me the way you're looking at me now or how you look at me when we're with the fellers. You see me and that shit's better than any drug I ever took," he commented. "Got me wearing proper clothes and cleaning up. You make me wanna be…better."

He sort of cringed on the last word and she found herself smiling.

"Most women don't understand me, or just refuse to. They run from little ol' Uncle T when he gets bent outta shape."

"What do you mean?"

"When that switch goes off. I'm yellin', shootin', showin' up on your doorstep bleeding and all doped up. They all run away and they certainly don't jump head first into the frying pan like you did, despite the knife I had at your neck."

"Did I have any choice? You were gonna kill me."

"Bahbahbah, I'm always ready to nearly kill someone. Anyone," he shook his head and plopped down on the mattress beside the woman. "Beyond that. Even after I fucked you up, drugged you up…"

"You saved me from Ballas."

"You helped me kill some hillbilly inbreds…"

"So you and I are just playing a giant game of I owe you back and forth?" she trialed, sick of the wary discussion.

"Is that what you want it to be? 'Cause we can give and take a few things," he flirted. She put a hand to his chest, stopping his predatory advance.

"You can't kiss your way out of this one. I haven't forgotten what you told me," she stated. He sighed and dropped his head then slid from the bed.

"Go back to working at the hospital, please?" he begged, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his head in her lap. She gasped, suddenly unsure of where to put her hands.

"What if something happens to you?" she asked.

"It's not like anyone can kill Uncle T. If I get banged up, I'll come to you."

She shuddered slightly against his hot breath on her thighs and at the words that had just left his mouth. _No one could kill him._ Slowly, she leaned over and pressed her lips to his head.

"Just be careful, Trev," she muttered against his scalp. He pulled away.

"What's got you so worked up? There somethin' I should know? You keepin' secrets from Trev?" he pried.

"You told me yourself… You just can't trust people," she quickly explained. He watched her face, reading and waiting.

"I'll go back to working at the hospital," she painstakingly agreed, hoping to deter him from any lingering suspicion. "I'm sure Carter will value my change of heart. Just know I'm gonna go looking for you guys at every dispatch."

"Don't waste your energy. We're professionals," he retorted, earning a laugh out of the woman.

"Professionals? Oh? Then by all means, tell me how Franklin got shot," she suggested.

"Y'see, there's these miniature missiles called bullets…"

"No," she playfully slapped his shoulder before he sprawled across the squeaky mattress. "What really happened?"

"Well…" he sighed. She allowed herself to cuddle up to him and rest her head in the crook of his neck. He smelled like sweat, a hint of gasoline, and a musk that made her want to wrap herself around him.

"There's a bank in the sticks of Paleto Bay…"

"Where's that?"

"You sayin' you've never been?" he asked, an air of shock showing in his voice.

"I'd never been to Blaine County if I hadn't met you guys," she informed.

"I'm offended. There's culture in these hills, pipsqueak. Anyway, you take the GOH north past Chumash and Fort Zancudo. Just keep going and you come to this town in the pines. THERE. Shit, I'm gonna have to take you. I can't believe you haven't been…"

"Concentrate, Trevor," she breathed into his neck. He fidgeted.

"Mike, Franklin, Packie, and I hit their bank, little Blaine County Savings. We keyed the weaponry and the gear. Lest sourced the getaway, but we popped the lid on something way bigger than we imagined."

"What happened?" she purred, nuzzling at his Adams appe with her nose.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked, sliding his hands lower on her frame.

"Keep talking," she ordered, eyes closed. He smirked, toying with the exposed skin of her lower back.

"Helicopters, tank, squad cars, and shotguns galore. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. I came out the bank with a minigun and _unloaded_ on every treacherous, slime piece of shit law enforcement I saw," he scratched his face, his eyes shining and on the ceiling. "Surprised you didn't tend to the burns on my hands when you were finished on Frank."

"You were adamant on me keeping him alive."

"Mmph. I was probably high. I barely remember the pain."

"How'd you all get away?"

"That's where Frank comes in. Me, Packie, and Mike came out with money in these massive duffels and all this protective gear on. We were too slow. Sitting fucking ducks. We shot our way a few blocks over then managed to hunker down from authorities. Then BCPD phoned in fucking Merryweather."

"Merryweather?" she echoed.

"Merryweather Private Consulting. This fuckin' courier security company or whatever. Devin Weston's an affiliate. I'm sure you've heard of him. Frank gets cars for him. Anyway… he comes barreling in on a bulldozer. We hop in the scoop and he tows us to a meat packing factory. Shoot some more bad guys in there till eventually, we get cornered waiting for our getaway. Frank got popped by Merryweather pricks just as the train arrived."

"Train?"

"Yeah. We hopped on and rode free all the way back to Sandy Shore."

"I don't know if I should be impressed or worried about your use of public transport in your debauchery."

"The pay was shit, but we got away with it, didn't we?"

"Franklin almost didn't," she countered.

"Almost doesn't account for shit. He's still walking and breathing 'cause of you. Hell, I am too," he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tight. She settled against his embrace, embracing the comfort of his company. It almost felt wrong to keep such an important secret from someone so willing to scoop you up. No one had hugged you remotely close to this since you and Carter shared a brief hug in the locker room. She hummed and sighed.

"I guess I'll call Carter in a few."

"On the bright side, maybe you'll get back to your sleep schedule?" he suggested.

"Yeah, but will you guys be alright?"

"We got along before you well enough. We'll manage," he claimed.

"Fine."

"Are you falling asleep?"

"If I am?"

"Nothing. I think I'll just enjoy this while I got it."

"You can still come by. It's not like you're banished," she explained, lifting her head to look at him.

"I'm not used to receiving invitations," he claimed.

"Never stopped you from showing up on my stoop before."

"You're gotdamn right," he quietly growled, bending his head slightly to kiss her on the mouth. The corner of her lips twitched up into a faint smile before she laid her head back down on his torso. Trevor's heart slowly hammered away in his chest as he walked two fingers up and down the length of her spine. She and Franklin needed to talk, but first she had to speak to Haines and Norton.


	25. Lions, Norton and Haines, oh my

The FIB building seemed to slightly sway in the wind as Melanie departed her car and made her way for the front doors. With the exception of a few pieces of yellow police tape flapping in the wind dozens upon dozens of stories up, the government made good work of repairing the damage occurred during their break in weeks ago.

As she pushed through the glass, one of the suited security guards pressed a finger to his ear and mumbled something. She kept her eyes on the woman behind the wide desk as she grew closer.

"How may I help you?" the receptionist greeted with a smile.

"I need to speak with David Norton," she ordered.

"He's in a meeting right now."

"Alright. What about Steve Haines?"

"He's also in a meeting."

"When will their meeting be over?"

"I'm sorry," the woman frowned as she began sifting through the papers in front of her. "Do you have an appointment?"

"I don't. It's important," Melanie urged, rapping her nails on the desk's edge.

"Are you a reporter?"

"No."

"Then I'm sorry. Neither Agent Norton nor Agent Haines can see you right now," she answered then made a gesture with her hand. One of the suited guards stepped up and placed a hand on Melanie's shoulder.

"I know my way out," she huffed, wrenching away from the man and marching toward the doors.

"Have a nice day!" the receptionist called. She was tempted to turn and shoot the staff her middle finger, but her phone vibrated in the pocket of her jacket.

"Yeah?" she answered the blocked number.

"Showing your face at the Bureau is a terrible idea. What do you want?"

She laughed crisp, cool air into the receiver as she descended the stairs.

"Thought you were in a meeting?" she tried. "I need to talk to you. Haines, too."

"Be quiet. Come to the dock in Mirror Park."

She paused before starting the engine of her car.

"What for?"

"We're not idiots. We know you want out. Michael put in a good word for you," he explained. She narrowed her eyes at no one in particular.

"I'm no idiot either. How do I know this isn't a scheme to take me out?"

"Why? So your mentor, your friend, and your lover can all run after us with guns blazing? I don't think so. Just come to Mirror Park."

"Got it," she noted before hanging up. She immediately phoned Franklin as she plopped down in the driver's seat of her car.

"Sup Melanie?"

"I'm on my way to a meeting with Agent Norton and Agent Haines in Mirror Park. I just feel like someone should know in case, you know, no one hears from me after this," she explained with a slight twitch of her bottom lip.

"I thought Michael was handling all that?" he asked.

"I guess he is, but I feel like I should stand up for myself," she explained. She heard him sigh into the receiver.

"You real serious about this, ain't you?"

"Yeah," she nodded, plucking at her steering wheel cover. "I mean...if it's what the majority feels is necessary."

"What do you want?" he shot back.

"Stability."

He laughed.

"Then yeah, I think you oughtta get back to that hospital. Damn... I was just getting used to having you around."

"I'm not disappearing forever. Hell, I've gotta see you win some more street races and I'd like to know the outcome of Michael's divorce. On top of that, I'm sure Trevor will make it his business to show his face, and you two usually aren't that far behind."

"Well when you put it like that, you sound tired of us," he noted. She laughed and turned over the engine, starting for the park a few blocks east.

"Tired of Michael and Trevor's bickering, yes, but overall? Not yet. I just hope you three can manage. I know I wasn't much use behind a gun, but still..."

"You helped us with that FIB run and that jewelry store. You're straight in my book. Don't start that shit. You just worry about getting back to steady living, if that's even a thing in Los Santos," he griped.

"We'll see," she sighed.

"Word. Ring me back when you're done with them dudes. If I ain't heard from you in an hour, we comin' for you, aight?"

"Thanks Franklin."

With the high noon's sun glistening against the surface of the murky lake in Radio Mirror Park, the day could have been perfect had it not been for the lopsided grin on Agent Haines' as he stood alongside the water's edge.

"There she is," he greeted as Melanie approached, his arms wide and his smile even wider.

"Hello Melanie," Agent Norton greeted.

"Let's talk business," Haines immediately started, snatching off his sunglasses and tucking them into the pocket of his indigo polo. She rocked on the soles of her shoes and crossed her arms over her shoulder.

"Is this an easy process or should I be worried?"

"Easier for you than it's been for some people," Norton explained in a disinterested voice. The three of them all fell silent as a woman jogged by with a large dog at her side. Haines cleared his throat.

"So what do I have to do?"

"Just return to the hospital," Norton claimed. She scoffed.

"No, no. You've had me stealing documents and nerve gas. Where's the catch?"

"Hush, there is no catch, Cutlass. Unless you _want_ to stay working with your friends..."

She didn't speak up and Agent Norton smirked.

"Just return to the hospital. I'll have a few men clear up a few things, patch a few holes, and you won't have to worry about anyone questioning your absence."

Her eyes flickered over to Agent Haines, who was stroking his chin.

"What is it, slick?" he took a few steps, closing the space between the two of them. "You look like you've got something to say?"

"I know you two want to kill Trevor," she let out. Both men sighed.

"I told you this would happen. Didn't I tell you?" Haines snapped at his partner.

"Michael's sensible, but Trevor is a liability that none of us can afford," Norton stated.

"Trevor..." she hesitated, mulling over her words. Trevor _would_ hurt a fly... But why was this such an issue?

"Trevor helped you. He's helped both of you," she snapped, feeling her agitation swelling inside her chest.

"And it's unfortunate," Norton insisted.

"When we give Franklin the word, he's doing it. No questions asked," Haines claimed a little to confidently. Her lips pursed.

"Oh yeah? You know him that well? You think he'll do whatever you train him to do with just a snap of your finger?"

"Why wouldn't he? Every time something needed to be done, you've made sure to make it through hell or highwater to help the boys do it, haven't you?"

She didn't answer.

"Do everyone a favor," Haines shoved his sunglasses back onto his face as started around the edge of the lake. "Stay out of it."

Norton turned to her, his hands in his pockets. He exhaled heavily through his nose and shook his head.

"Go back to Pillbox Medical Center, cut relations with Trevor...hell, all three of them, and, uh, just hope for the best," he suggested.

"Fuck you," she hissed. He quietly laughed once.

"Good day, Melanie."


	26. The Good Paramedic

When Melanie waltzed into Pillbox Hill Medical Center the next morning, it was as though time had fast forwarded itself. A nurse leaning against a counter stared. Melanie sent her a small yet quizzical smile and the one sitting behind the counter rolled her eyes, prompting the paramedic to tighten her grip on the duffel draped over her shoulder. She rounded the corner leading to the EMT station and bumped right into the one person she needed to speak to.

"Oh, what the hell? Watch where you're..." Nicky's aggravated response gave way as she locked eyes with her old employee. She scoffed from her spot on the floor amidst the scattered papers she had dropped in the collision.

"Sorry, Nicky," Melanie quickly gulped as she scrambled to help collect the pieces of paper. She noticed her name printed in the corner of one of the forms.

"What're these for?" she hesitated in asking.

"What a coincidence," Nicky groaned as she struggled to heave herself upright. Melanie offered a hand but the woman used the rail mounted on wall opposite the two of them to stand up.

"I was headed to the post office to mail your discharge papers to you," Nicky explained. Melanie's heart sunk in her chest. She cut the woman off as she started to march past again.

"No. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have disappeared like I did. I was going through a lot at the time and I-"

"A lot like what? Death in the family? Spouse left you? Emergency surgery?" she urged. Melanie cupped a hand to her forehead and sighed. Nicky began to tap her foot, prompting the brace on her knee to squeak with her every movement.

"I caught the flu," she started. "Then I sort of slipped into a depression. Everything just...got out of hand very quick."

Maybe half truths were becoming her sort of thing now. Nicky's arms crossed over her chest and the EMS badge on her chest caught the light overhead at the right angle to shine directly in Melanie's face.

"What're you here for?"

"I want... I'm asking for my old job back," she clucked with a smile.

"It's too late," Nicki sternly replied, brushing past her again. She stopped at the counter, flipped over a few pages, grabbed a pen and turned to Melanie.

"Sign on the dotted line, please," Nicky ordered. Melanie's jaw clenched as she felt her chin begin to tremble.

"It is _not_ too late. I haven't even signed anything yet. Nicky, please."

"Do you think the whole world went on hold while you were on your hiatus?" her boss barked, cheeks immediately growing pink. Melanie jumped at her new tone of voice. What few nurses were behind the desk quickly turned away and began to mind their own business.

"No. I don't think the whole world went on hold-"

"Good! Because it damn sure kept spinning," Nicky lowered her voice as she closed the space between her and the younger woman. "People kept getting sick, hurt, or killed. Kids too. What am I supposed to do when my staff is cut short and my best hand is away, crying into her pillow? Let her come and go as she pleases? Did you forget what you swore into?"

"I didn't, Nicky. I swear, I'm sorry."

"Raise your right hand," she ordered. Melanie dropped her duffel bag by her feet and slowly put up her right hand.

"Say the oath."

"Nicky, it's-"

"Say it!" she ordered. Her voice echoed down the narrow, quiet halls of the hospital. She narrowed her gray-blue eyes at the woman before her and ruffled the forms in her hands.

"Okay," Melanie quickly nodded and swallowed hard. "Be it pledged as an Emergency Medical Technician, I will honor the physical and judicial laws of God and man. I will follow that regimen which, according to my ability and judgment, I consider for the benefit of patients and abstain from whatever is deleterious and mischevous, nor shall I suggest any counsel. Into whatever homes I enter, I will go into them for the benefit of only the sick and injured, never revealing what I see or hear in the lives of men unless required by law..."

Nicky took a step back and listened quiet, her lips tight. Melanie used her left hand to swipe away the tears on her face before she continued.

"I shall also share my medical knowledge with those who may benefit from what I have learned. I will serve unselfishly and continuously in order to help make a better world for all mankind... While I continue to keep this oath unviolated, may it be granted to me to enjoy life, and the practice of the art, respected by all men, in all times. Should I trespass or violate this oath, may the reverse be my lot. So help me God."

For a moment, the two stood there in silence. Melanie's right hand wavered in the air as she waited for a response. She didn't know what she would do if she couldn't work in a place so close to her heart anymore. Nicky was tapping her foot against the bleached linoleum again and her knee brace was wailing in response. Finally, she let out a deep sigh and tore the small stack of papers in half, twice.

"Get changed and check in," Nicky ordered in a stern and tired tone. Melanie dropped her hand and an excited squeak escaped before she could cover her mouth. She started to throw her arms around her boss, but she put up a calloused, gently wrinkled hand.

"Don't let it happen again."

"I won't! Thank you, I won't," she swiped up her duffel bag and started toward the EMS wing.

"I'll have you back on the payroll within 48 hours. At the rate you're going, I'm sure you're okay with going a day or two without a proper pay rate," Nicky claimed.

"Yes. Anything you say, Mrs. Mills!" Melanie shot over her shoulder as she pushed through the double doors leading to their offices. That faintly irritating smell of stale coffee and too much cheap laundry detergent filled the air. Someone in the recreation room loudly dropped a pair of weights and grunted. She could barely make out the sound of a woman sobbing as someone absentmindedly watched reruns of aged soap operas on the television across the room. Yes, this was where she belonged.

There was an unfamiliar, sinewy man with dark brown hair behind the desk manning the computer where every staff member usually checked in.

"Good morning," she greeted him, unable to conceal the smile on her face. He smiled back, a bit of Crows feet bunching about his steely blue eyes. Hastily, she blinked away as her mind shot back to Michael and the features the two men shared. No. This was where she belonged.

"You're new here?" he asked, standing and resting his hands on the counter.

"I've been here awhile, actually. Just been away. You, on the otherhand..." she set her duffel down and started to type away on the keyboard. _ID: Cutlass, Melanie. Time IN: 9:30AM._

"I'm three weeks in," he sent her another grin and extended a hand. "Patrick O'Neil, but I've been telling everyone to call me Packie."

She blinked hard at the name and slightly shook her head. Biting back an unconscientous smile and the urge to tuck her tail, she firmly shook his hand.

"Melanie Cutlass. Some call me Mel."

"What is this I hear about Melanie being back?" a large man bellowed as he pushed through the double doors she had just entered. She scoffed and blushed, turning away from Patrick.

"About fucking time, Theo. You were supposed to be here to relieve me ten minutes ago. I've got more to life than this job," a woman complained as she appeared from the locker room. The rambunctious man charged Melanie and scooped her up in a hug that lifted her feet from the floor.

"Hello Theodore," she greeted.

"Nice to see you, Melanie," the complaining woman greeted as she scooped up a backpack and started for the computer to check out.

"You too, Alex," she let out as Theodore squeezed her one good time then set her back down.

"Have any of you seen Carter?" she asked.

"He should be checking in any minute to relieve Benny," Patrick explained.

"Benny?"

"Another new guy, Benjamin. He started around the same time as me. He's in the rec room lifting," Patrick stated. Melanie sighed. Two new faces and her best hand back? Nicky shouldn't have to complain about anything anymore. Alex finally turned away from the computer with a smirk on her face.

"I'd be careful. Carter's been extra irritable since his Melly up and left," she taunted. Melanie couldn't help to roll her eyes.

"That's too bad. Melly's back now and if he wants to cry, he'll take it home to his wife. I'm here to do work."

"I missed your attitude around here. That's for damn sure," Theodore claimed before walking away. Melanie let out a breath of satisfaction then picked up her bag and started for the locker room.

"Melanie!" Patrick called. She paused at the door and looked over her shoulder.

"You have a partner for the day yet, or...?"

"No, not yet," she replied. "Why?"

"I heard you were one of the best. I could use a few tips and tricks, y'know, so I can get in the swing of things," he explained. She nodded slowly.

"Gotcha, Patrick," she agreed then pushed into the locker room.

It wasn't until halfway through shimmying into her black cargo pants did she realize her cheeks were beginning to hurt from smiling. Things were starting to feel normal and right side up again. Maybe this was for the better. After tucking in the white shirt, she took a seat on the bench to lace up her boots. The door to the locker room squeaked as someone pushed in. A few seconds later, Carter appeared at the end of the row of lockers. The two shared silent, cautious glances at first.

"I ran into Alex in the parking lot. I thought it was just a rumor. Then I checked the computer and saw your name on the roster," he claimed. "And here you are."

"Here I am," she quietly added. He exhaled through his nose, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his cargos.

"Welcome back."

"I don't get a hug?" she questioned, sitting upright to gather her hair into a tight bun.

"We're all of sixty seconds into our reunion and we're supposed to be best friends all over again?" he hissed.

"I did what I did and it can't be undone. I'm back now and I'd like to move forward. You made me a promise," she insisted.

"Am I supposed to be ecstatic you've returned? You left me high and dry. You know who has been my partner as of late? Benny. You know what Benny is? Benny's a mouth breather. So that's what I've been dealing with the past few weeks."

"And I've been dealing with homicidal thieves and corrupt government officials, but you don't see me complaining. You know, Carter, if you want me to resume our partnership just so you can scold and chastise me, this isn't going to work out," she grunted, feeling her temper begin to flare for the first time all day.

"Oh you're so high and mighty now, huh? Been running with some big dogs and now your belts too tight."

"Carter, don't. This isn't how I'd like us to start off. Let's move beyond the past, for everyone's sake."

"Aren't you almighty?" he groaned, plopping down on one of the benches a few feet away from her. She finished wrestling her hair into its bun and approached him, taking a spot beside him.

"I did what I did and it can't be undone," she repeated. "It wasn't all bad. It wasn't all my fault. If anything, it helped me grow. We're not talking about it. So either you move past it like I have or we won't be able to work together," she stated, extending a hand. He shot a glance down at her offer, hesitant.

"How am I supposed to know it won't happen again?"

She quietly groaned and dropped her hand. Just as Carter opened his mouth to speak, the loudspeaker overhead crackled.

"Welcome back, Cutlass," came Tammy's, the dispatcher, voice. "We've got a 10-30 in Rockford Hills. You're on and, again, welcome back."

As she leapt to her feet, Carter looked at her expectingly. Not in the mood to spend the next few hours with the possibility of being interrogated and pestered, she quickly turned away and marched for the exit.

"Patrick!" she called. "You ready to go?"

* * *

Being back in an ambulance was revitalizing. Melanie felt restored as Patrick wove in and out of the roads of west Los Santos. Even with sirens wailing, he wasn't as nimble behind the wheel as Carter had always been, but he played Classical music from the speaker on his phone just loud enough to be heard under the CB radio mounted in the dash. As the two pulled up to halt at the scene of an accident, Melanie groaned.

"What is it?" Patrick asked. She pointed through the windshield at an ambulance already sitting parked along the curb housing a row of empty parking spots.

"Mount Zonah Medical Center," she explained, unbuckling her seatbelt and sliding from the vehicle.

"I'll be," one of the Mount Zonah paramedics spoke up as he helped lift a stretcher into the back of their ambulance. The young woman lying down had blood on her pants, but was using her hands to cover her face.

"What're you doing out here, Melanie? We've got it covered," the other spoke up.

"Didn't say you didn't. Just responding to the call, as usual," she explained, surveying the scene.

" _As usual?_ From what I hear, you haven't even been active."

Melanie huffed.

"Don't believe everything you hear. What's happened?" Patrick spoke up. The four of them shared a look around.

"Where's Carter?" the Mount Zonah woman asked, an odd smile on her face.

"Hey, stay on task here. Okay?" Patrick ushered. Melanie appeared impressed.

"Hit and run," the Mount Zonah man stated. "But the woman here got the plate. So we're gonna get her on to the hospital and phone it in. You all be careful out here."

"Will do," Melanie mumbled with a weak wave. The Mount Zonah team waved back before climbing in their ambulance and starting up the sirens.

"You're a lot more headstrong than I was when I was firsted out," Melanie complimented Patrick after the other team had pulled away. The duo started back toward their vehicle.

"You've gotta be, don't you? To survive in this field anyway?"

"Yes sir," she sighed. As she popped open the passenger door, she caught sight of a police cruiser coming to a halt alongside the curb across the street. A disgruntled woman stomped her feet and writhed in the grip of a security guard. A man in a nice suit stood on the other side of the security guard, talking wildly with his hands.

"Is that business of ours?" Patrick asked, his gaze following his partner's.

"Not exactly. Stay right here," she ordered. Melanie cupped a hand over her brow to get a better look at the scene unfolding beneath the morning's cloudless sky.

"Get your hands off me!" the woman's shrill yell could be heard from across the various lanes of traffic. "I want my lawyer!"

"You're kidding..." Melanie muttered. She put a hand up to Patrick as he idled in the driver's seat before she used the crosswalks to hurry across the road. After a few moments, the police officer took the woman's hands behind her back and slapped on a pair of handcuffs. She pouted and, again, demanded her lawyer. The police officer placed a hand on the top of her head and lowered her into the back of a police car before returning to the man in the nice suit.

"Unlock the door! Let me out of the gotdamn car! I did nothing wrong!"

"I recognize that voice anywhere," Melanie muttered, unable to contain a slight laugh as she pulled out her cell phone. Patrick honked his horn once, to which she waved a hand and turned her back to him.

"I have friends that have to deal with shoplifters all the time, but that's Binco and Sub-urban," he explained. "You'd think if you had the nerve to show your face in Dieder Sachs, you'd have the money to afford what you want..."

"What're you doing calling me, kid? You got what you wanted," Michael greeted. She frowned.

"No, I got what _you_ wanted, but it looks like I'm still of some use," she answered, ignoring his clear agitation. "I think Amanda's being arrested."

"What? Where is she? For what?"

She snorted. He cared more than he let on to.

"I was responding to a 10-30 just outside of Rockford Plaza and I stumbled upon her situation. It sounds like she was caught shoplifting," she explained. He groaned and she could hear him begin to shift around. What sounded like ice tinkling against a glass pricked at her ear. He was probably drinking, per usual.

"Shit, okay. I'm on the way. There anything you can do?"

"Course not, Mikey," she taunted. "I'm out and I'm on the clock. Hurry though. They've already got her in handcuffs."

"She's calling me right now. Thanks for the heads up, kid. We'll see each other soon," he said then hung up. Tucking away her phone, she spun on her heel and started back for her ambulance before anyone noticed her presence.

"What was that?" Patrick asked as she climbed into her seat.

"The woman being arrested is an old friend of mine. I was doing her a favor and calling her lawyer since she looks a bit caught up," she lied.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to Los Santos business," he complained, starting the engine and pulling into traffic.

"You're not from around here?"

"No. I moved here from Liberty City last month," he explained.

"I'm from LC too. What drove you away from home?"

"Opportunity," he flashed his eyes in her direction. She smirked.

"I finished my school back there, but I figured I'd spend my time probably stitching up mobsters and drug dealers," he explained. She guffawed.

"Well if you think it's any different here, boy have I got news for you."

"At least the sun always shines here."

She leaned an arm against the door and shot him a look, brows furrowed.

"That's new. That's the kind of positivity I like. I think we'll make for good friends, Packie," she mentioned.

"That's what I like to hear," he agreed.


	27. Boiling Points

"You busy?"

"Not really, Michael. Just clocked out of the hospital. Getting in my car now. What's up?" Melanie paused in her driver's seat.

"Need you out in Sandy Shores, Trevor's place," he ordered. He sounded exasperated.

"Are you and Trevor okay? Where's Franklin?"

"He wasn't in this one and yeah, T's fine."

She heard the madman let out a wolf-like howl in the background.

"What about you?"

"Don't worry about me. You remember that guy, Madrazo?" Michael tried.

"Of course."

"Trevor kidnapped his wife. He got shot at in the process but, uh, yeah..."

"Not much to say about that," Melanie sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose then starting the car. "His wife, huh? I'm on my way."

Michael hung up and she clicked through her phone for a while. What did Trevor want with Mr. Madrazo's wife? Was he bold enough to hold her for ransom? Was that all? She hissed, turning the engine over and switching into Drive.

The passenger door flung open and Carter plopped himself down in the passenger seat.

"Now what?"

"We need to talk," he claimed in a tone that meant business. Her lips pursed and her head shook from side to side.

"About what? Can't this wait? I'm busy."

"How? We just clocked out."

"I have a life besides this," she gestured to the hospital.

"You're still working with them, aren't you?"

"No, Carter."

"Are you lying to me?"

"Yes. YES. I'm lying through my teeth! What do you want me to do? Get down on my knees like you're a priest and have me beg for your forgiveness? Where do you get off on this entire thing? They pull something off and I'm called if anyone gets hurt. Okay?" she finally blew up.

"I watch the news, Melanie-"

"Get out of my car," she urged, eyes boring into him.

"Not until you start giving up answers!" he bellowed, cheeks glowing pink. With a huff, she cut the engine.

"Vangelico?"

Her eyes rolled as she replied,

"That was us."

" _Us?_ So you're on a team now? Not just patching up the bad guys, but running the streets and shooting? Contributing to the amount of people wheeled into hospitals? What do you do? Go in with guns loaded and hands out?"

"I don't know. I was in the helicopter, throwing knock-out gas into the ventilation system," she nonchalantly explained, clearly sick of his charades. "I rappeled down the side of the FIB building after helping hack their files. The last time you saw me out here, I had secured the funds stolen from a bank truck. After that, I helped two federal government employees fight against a bout of terrorism using torture interrogation. Last, but not least, I hijacked a semi to, once again, help the government fight what was probably going to end up being a botched terror attack. And now I stand, no. Now I SIT before you, relieved of my duty, and you want to waste my time, badgering me over the decision I can't undo?"

She could feel her cheeks wet with hot tears of anguish, but she didn't dare take her eyes away from her old partner.

"I could call the police right now and help you out of this. You can plead your case and get away from..."

"With WHAT evidence?" she hysterically cackled. "LSPD is no better than we are. DO IT. I dare you. Fuck it all up. I'll have you dead before tomorrow."

The car grew eerily silent. The sound of the blood rushing in her ears faltered and began to fade. She swallowed hardd, her own threat to the man beside her reverberating around in her head.

"You tell me you're fine then you drop bombs like that?" Carter tried.

"I know people," she warned, shoulders tensing upward. "Leave well enough alone."

"So this is it? You living two lives? What's next? Are you going to bring Patrick along with you on another Grove Street ambush so he can see just how crazy you've become? You gonna convert the whole department?"

"That's enough! Get out of my car. I'm not a child! I'm not your partner anymore. I don't have to deal with this!" she bellowed.

There came a knock on the hood of her car. Both their heads snapped in its direction and met Patrick's worried gaze.

"Everything cool?" he inquired. Carter scoffed and pushed out of the car. Patrick watched him march across the lot and climb into his own car. As he slowly rounded the side of Melanie's vehicle, she quickly swiped at her damp face and rolled down her window.

"It's okay," she quickly reassured him. "Just some miscommunication."

"You gonna make it?" he asked.

"I always do," she forced a smile. As she turned the key in the ignition, he leaned toward the window.

"Are you busy? Got time for lunch?"

"With you?" she blurted out, dumbstruck. He cracked a small grin, which fell apart as she began to laugh.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," she put a hand to her forehead and let out a breath. "I actually have to check on some friends. I'm already late."

"Got it," he sent her a small nod. "Maybe some other time."

She hesitated in restarting the engine, only to send him a nod then pull out of the parking lot. As she departed from the parking lot to merge onto the expressway heading North, she felt her hands trembling around the steering. Tightening her grip and gritting her teeth, she drew in a deep breath then let it out slow. The pure rage, almost disgust, and bitter disappointment, which had slipped in her veins in front of Carter was alien. She had actually contemplated putting her hands on him. Who knew what would have happened if she'd had her gun on her hip? She pursed her lips and gently shook her head. She was all talk. She knew her pistol was in the glovebox. She could have put hands on it if necessary.

If necessary. She shuddered. The man was married. She knew his wife. She was pregnant. He was a part-time soldier at Fort Zancudo. He would go missed and she would have been the last person he was seen with. That would have been it. Her career and life would have been over.

Shaking her head again, she switched on the radio to help drown out her thoughts. She wouldn't have. He was her best friend. He had been, anyways. She wasn't like Michael, Franklin, or Trevor. Whenever she pulled that trigger, it had to have a good, solid reason behind doing so. He wasn't that heavy of a threat. He was just concerned, and maybe scared. Just like she had been when she first got pulled into everything.

"Screw this," she turned the knob on the radio, letting The Lowdown 91.1 consume her brain. A cool breeze whipped at the flyaway hairs caressing her face. She readjusted her shaky grip on the wheel as she turned onto Route 68, closing in on Sandy Shores. A knot forced itself in her throat.

Madrazo's wife. What _did_ Trevor want with her and why did Michael sound so done with his shit? But more importantly, what did Trevor want with Mrs. Madrazo? Melanie thoughtfully licked her bottom lip as she cruised down the dusty road passing Sandy Shores Airfield. Maybe he was...interested in her? She punched the horn once as two men on a dirty bike narrowly zoomed past. Already, the desert's prickly heat poked at the back of her neck. As she came to a stop in front of the familiar, ramshackle trailer, she unbuttoned the top button of her uniform blouse. The door to the trailer slapped open and Michael stepped onto the porch. His eyes rose from the pack of cigarettes in his hand as she slammed the car door shut behind her and approached.

"About time. What took ya?"

"I got caught up with something. Where's T?"

"Oh yeah? What kind of something?" he curiously questioned.

"An unimportant something. Where's T?" she repeated.

"In there," he replied before letting out a chuckle.

"What's so funny?" she stopped halfway up the stairs to send him a queer eye.

"You haven't been away a solid forty-eight hours and already...well... He's inside," he jammed a cigarette between his lips then jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. Wary from Michael's greeting but also excited to see the men again, she burst into the trailer.

There was an older woman sitting on the stained couch, her mouth and hands bound in her lap with duct tape.

"Hey sugartits," Trevor greeted, perched on the table with a red, plastic cup jammed under his nose. Melanie pointed a finger at the woman.

"The fuck's this?"

"This," he crossed the room and snatched the tape off the woman's mouth, causing her to slightly yelp. "...is Mrs. Madrazo. I need you to look her over. Make sure I didn't get her hurt in my daring escape."

" _This_ is Mrs. Madrazo?" she repeated, taken back. She almost felt bad for even worrying about a new woman being in Trevor's company. This wasn't what she had pictured when she heard about the woman married to a man with ties to Mexican drug rings. She wore a matching pink jogging suit and kept her head tucked low. Melanie looked to Trevor only to find his gaze on the woman, his face soft.

"I'm not even going to ask... Okay," she took a seat on the couch and pulled a pen from her pocket.

"I'm a doctor," Melanie enunciated.

"I speak English," Mrs. Madrazo nodded. Trevor hummed from his spot on the table. Clicking a button and gently taking the woman's chin in her hand, Melanie shone her penlight in the woman's eyes then in her ears.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

When the woman answered correctly, Melanie stood and clapped her hands together.

"I think she's fine. What about you? I heard you got shot at."

"Just a scratch. It'll heal," he insisted. Melanie stood with her palm out as though to say "let me see". Trevor rolled up the left sleeve of his white t-shirt to reveal a small gash through the tattoo on his arm. She stepped closer to examine his wound.

"Well your tattoo is..." she faded out, reading the ink on his arm. He huffed, shoving the fabric back down into place.

"Ruined," she finished. "Is that..."

Without warning, he gripped her arm and jerked her away to his bedroom. The sliding door slapped shut behing the two of them and she stumbled backward into his wardrobe. He gripped her arm and pulled her upright.

"Why do you have 'Rest In Peace Michael' on your arm?" she asked, baffled. "I know you're not talking about the same..."

His rough hand clapsed down on her mouth and he pulled her close.

"I'm working on that part," he remarked, his amber eyes boring into her soul. His gaze died down and she was reminded of how he looked at Mrs. Madrazo. When he let her go, she straightened out her shirt.

"I assume I'm done here?" she trialed, starting for the door.

"Hang on," he took her wrist and pulled her back around.

"What's your rush?"

She kept her eyes on the busted television sitting on his dresser.

"Nothing. I've been on my feet all day, I'm tired. I just wanna get back home."

He took her chin in his and made her look at him.

"S'the matter? You can tell Uncle T," he cooed, but she snatched her face away. Her blood was starting to rush again.

"I told you already," she lied.

"I've told you before, Mel," he took her shoulders in his hands. "You're shit at hiding shit from me. You been crying?"

Again, she jerked her face away.

"C'mon, sugartits..."

"I thought about killing someone today and, for a moment, it felt good," she finally let out. He stared for a moment, his mouth slightly open. A smile that made her stomach drop broke out and ran rampant over his features.

"I'm impressed. That's my little hardass," he applauded her. "How 'bout a little celebration?"

She frowned and wrenched out his grip as he began to nestle against her.

"He wasn't a bad person. He wasn't like everyone else we go after. I was pissed off and I almost fucked up," she insisted, hoping to rid her stomach of the knot.

"Well," he took a step back. "Ain't that why you got out? So we couldn't fuck you up anymore, _princess_?"

She didn't say anything, immediately resenting his mocking tone. He reared back and landed a solid punch in the wall behind him. When he turned back around, his knuckles were bleeding.

"Let me see that..."

He grunted in response, snatching up what appeared to be a dingy shirt from the floor and wrapping it around his hand. The bedroom door slid open and Michael's head poked in.

"We all good?" Michael checked in, his eyes mainly focused on Trevor. Melanie thought back to the tattoo on Trevor's arm and felt her head starting to spin.

"Peachy keen," Trevor announced, trotting back over to his kitchen table and twisting off the cap of a beer.

"What he said," Melanie muttered, swiftly exiting the trailer. Michael hurriedly followed her down the staircase.

"I don't know if this'll be of much help, but..." he handed over a small business card. She turned it over in her hands and scoffed.

"Doctor Isiah Friedlander, professional therapist?" she read aloud.

"He ain't much help to me, but maybe he can lead you to the right path."

She nodded, stuffing it into her breast pocket.

"Want a ride back into town?"

"No, I'm good," he replied, kicking at a patch of dead grass. "I'm sorta stuck out here till we get Mrs. Madrazo back to her husband and I finish paying him back."

"Nice," she sarcastically let out. "I'll see you, Michael."

He started back up the porch with a wave. She pulled away from the house and started back for the freeway. Where was Franklin when you needed him?


	28. An Apple a Day

After calling Michael's therapist the next morning, Melanie set up an appointment to meet with him after work. The late afternoon, Los Santos traffic sluggishly wormed its way through the city before opening up to the Great Ocean Highway. The air rolling in from the ocean was salty and warm and everyone seemed to love it. When she parked her car behind the beachfront house, she could hear the waves breaking and caressing the shore. Behind her, cars whizzed by on three lanes of pavement.

"Are you my 5PM?" a man's voice called down to her from a balcony. She cupped a hand over her eyes to focus against the glaring sun.

"Walk around front and come on up," he ordered.

"Oh boy," she muttered to herself, realizing just how low she had stooped. She'd have to sit and listen to this man empathize with her. What was worse, she had to pay him for it. Judging by the bright red, waxed sports car sitting outside his two-car garage, he would wind up charging a pretty penny.

Her sandals flipped and flopped as she pushed through the gate to ascend the spiral staircase.

"Nice house," she complimented once she reached the spacious second landing where he stood, waiting. Despite the weather, he was clad in a sweater with another shirt beneath it tucked into long pants.

"Doctor Isiah Friedlander," he extended a hand. She returned a firm shake.

"Melanie Cutlass," she claimed. His eyes slightly widened at the mention of her name.

"You're a referral, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yes. Mr. De Santa suggested your practice-"

"No need to explain yourself, dear," he put up a hand. "I understand and I am all here for you."

"I didn't mean to waste your time," she shuffled her feet, letting her eyes focus on the beach below. "I don't know. I'm not even sure why I'm here."

"Nothing is wasted, Melanie. You reached out because you felt like you needed to. We'll go inside and start at the basics so this doesn't feel overwhelming. Baby steps," he explained, opening a door. After a moment's hesitation, she reluctantly obliged.

"Have a seat," he offered as he closed the door behind them. "Tell me a little bit about yourself."

Melanie stood before the long window that ran the entire length of the office's rear wall. The ocean seemed to span on infinitely. Seagulls and beachgoers mingled on the sand. Boats big and small dotted the indigo water.

"Melanie?"

"What is there to tell?" she questioned, finally taking a seat on the end of the brown sofa.

"Any and everything you feel like getting off your chest."

Swallowing hard, she leaned back against the stiff cushions.

"Why did you feel compelled to call a therapist?" Dr. Friedlander broke the silence. She shrugged a shoulder.

"I feel like I'm losing control of myself," she claimed.

"Your whole self?"

"No," she sat up straighter, her fingers anxiously twitching in her lap. "Just parts of me. Like, my tendencies. My patience. My frustrations."

"What might have caused this?" he inquired, fishing.

"The people I hang out with."

"Are you referencing Michael and Trevor?"

"Yeah, and Franklin. Well, not Franklin. He's not as extreme as those two."

"I don't mean to pry. I just need certain information to come to a proper understanding. Your relationship with Trevor doesn't interfere with your ability to function like a... I'll say, like a normal human being? The way Michael describes him is somewhat frightening."

"No," she laughed once. "I wouldn't formally annouce it as a relationship, first off. We share a type of fondness. Trevor is a lot to take in, but when you remember the drugs and way of life and how he makes his living, you realize he just wants attention."

"Perhaps his aggressive tendencies and such are rubbing off on you, causing you to feel this way?"

"I try not to let the people get the best of me, but considering recent events, it's becoming a hassle."

"What about Michael? How do you two get along?"

"He's not the best at the whole mentor spiel, but he's alright. He calls somewhat decent shots most of the time and we go with them. I mean, he did reference me to you, right?"

"Indeed. What about the other one. What did you say his name was?"

"Franklin? He's the glue. He's the rational to everyone's irrational."

"So it may be your...partnerships with these men. It may be recent events. What else?"

"Work," she blatantly responded.

"How long have you been in your line of work? Michael mentioned you were a paramedic."

"Oh, not that one. I've been pretty responsible about that for years now. I meant..." she waved a hand. "You know..."

He stared blankly.

"Doctor-Patient confidentiality applies, right?" she asked.

"Of course."

"Then I'm sure Michael has told you about what it is we do. Err, well what _they_ do now. I ran a few _errands_ alongside the group, but now I'm back to just patching up afterward. Being a paramedic is a lot easier than a criminal," she explained. He crossed his legs one over the other and asked,

"How does the latter make you feel?"

"Like... Like I'm a fire being smothered. When I was younger, back in Liberty City, my dad worked with men like that to try and earn money for my mom's chemotherapy. Money there wasn't as fast as money here."

"Well you're already well off as a paramedic, yes?" Dr. Friedlander pried. She sighed, scratching at her head and sighing again.

"Everyone assumes that... I'm well up to almost thirteen thousand dollars in debt from the training and classes I took to get this job. And that's _after_ federal aid and a payment plan I've been following for the past year."

"These sessions run by the half-hour if you want to start preparing and I accept checks..."

"I'm not even sure if I want this to become a habit yet," she confessed, slightly taken back.

"You take whatever measures you have to in order to feel better, but I know these sessionns can help. I can guide you in the right direction. Now, back to the subject. You felt like you were losing control of yourself. What happened there?"

"I got into a shouting match with a colleague-"

"Which one?"

"You wouldn't know of him. He works at the hospital," she dismissed him with a shake of her head. "He doesn't like me working with the guys, but in that moment, I swear... I could've just..."

Her clenched fists trembled in her lap.

"Have you ever acted out in such a manner before?"

"No way," she quickly responded, forcing her hands to relax. "Unless I'm worn out, I've always been able to keep a cool head."

"Speaking of, I know ambulance shifts bear down heavily, but how exactly have you been sleeping since you began working with Michael and company?"

"If I ever saw the inside of a bed, I got maybe three hours a night. Four, if I'm lucky."

"Perhaps it is a good thing you're no longer running them full-time. Over-exertion or lack of sleep could be one of many things responsible for your short temper. That, and trying to prove yourself to your three colleagues," he explained. He was scribbling away on a tiny notepad. She inched forward to the edge of the cushion, resting her elbows on her knees and rubbing her hands together.

"Dr. Friedlander, for a brief moment, I considered killing a friend of mine and, for another brief moment... I didn't feel bad about it," she explained. "I've never been more afraid in my entire life."

"I see. Melanie, when did you lose your mother?" he asked, not even missing a beat.

"I was eleven, going on twelve. Why?"

"The brink of adolescence. What about your father? The men he worked with? Do you know what they did specifically? Were they around a lot?"

"Yeah, even after mom died. They were constantly around. They committed robberies, killed people even."

Dr. Friedlander looked up from his notepad, a peculiar frown on his face.

"You've been exposed to such violence before. All working with Michael did waswake up a few emotions you may have been able to suppress during your adolescence," he claimed.

"I guess..." she shrugged. "I mean, I never particularly felt bad about anything we did, with the exemption ofthe time we tortured a man."

His eyes briefly closed.

"I ask this in the most polite and least offensive way possible, Melanie. Are you ready?"

"Not at all."

"Are you sexually active?" he asked anyway.

"I mean..." she shrugged a shoulder, her neck growing hot. "It's been a long time. Like, a year."

"Perhaps you should just take a day off from it all? Take some personal time to reevaluate a few things? Let yourself go a bit."

"No," she laughed. "No can do. Work is work."

"And work can wait. You can't work if you're sick, physically or mentally or emotionally. It's just a brief breather."

Melanie couldn't curate a response to the man.

"Do you know what a sociopath is, Miss Cutlass?"

"I do."

"Here," he rose to his feet, offering over the piece of paper. "I've written you a prescription for a sleep aid. Get that filled and it should be enough for two weeks. Take one by mouth only when you know you're good for at LEAST eight hours of sleep, or else you'll be near useless. We'll see how those treat you."

She stood.

"What about the sociopath thing?"

A meek smile was on his face.

"No worries. I'm afraid that'sall the time I have today, but trust me. I am going to help you get better, Melanie."

"Wait. What if-"

"Come, come," he gestured toward the door.

"Do you have a bank card?"

"Maze Bank, yeah," she grumbled, growing irritated. He withdrew a tiny, square shaped device from a side table's drawer by the door. A few buttons beeped and he turned the illuminated screen to her.

"Five-hundred dollars?" she exclaimed. Her eyebrow skyrocketed.

"A small sacrifice to make for help seeking solutions to both interpersonal and intrapersonal conflicts, Miss Cutlass."

She sighed before swiping her card along the device's side. It beeped twice and Dr. Friedlander nodded accordingly.

"Don't forgot to fill your prescription. Same time next week?" he tried as she swung open the door.

"We'll see," she replied on her way back down the spiral staircase. As the sounds of the city crept back into her ears, she felt the tension that had been building on her shoulders in the office dissipate. She stretched and, instead of rounding the house to her vehicle, she pushed through the front gate that led to the beach. A blonde woman in purple spandex hissed at Melanie as she swerved her bike along the concrete path to narrowly miss a collision. She shook her head, continuing onto the beach.

The sky was a rose red with a dark hue of sherbet orange and the sun would soon begin its kiss with the horizon. Melanie kicked off her sandals and took a seat in the warm sand. Perhaps Dr. Friedlander was right, it was time for a breather. Her cell phone buzzed in the pocket of her shorts. She kicked out her legs, relaxing against the warm mounds beneath her to check the notification. Michael was calling.

"What's up?"

"How'd it go with Dr. Friedlander?" he asked.

"Not too bad."

"He's full of shit. I'm warning you now."

"Whatever you say, M. How's the desert?" she asked. Her eyes were focused on a group of men and women playing frisbee near the shoreline.

"Dry and quiet, but it's better than having my head mounted on the hood of a car of one of Madrazo's men. We should be free to go where we please in a few days. I've been brainstorming."

"How've things been with Amanda since that shoplifting incident?"

"She's still living elsewhere. You know, she sorta kissed me on the cheek, but only after I lost the cops and she called me a piece of shit a half dozen times. I don't know. She seems pretty adamant about the papers. Hey, you seem a lot more sociable now than the last time I saw you."

"I'm just brainstorming," she noted, cracking a small grin.

"I taught you well."

"If that's what you wanna call it."

If she was to be just a paramedic, so be it. She found herself laughing.

"What's so funny, kid?"

"Nothing, Michael. I've gotta go. Just call when you guys need help or something."

"Sure."

Just as he hung up, her phone started ringing again.

"Sup Mel? You work tonight?"

"No, I'm off right now. What's up?"

"I just got an email about another street race tonight on the freeway. If what Mike told me about you seeing a therapist is true, then I think you could use some fun outside of the workplace. I ain't seen much of you since you went back to the hospital."

"Eh."

"Bull. You're my good luck charm. I'll even come pick you up. I know you wanna hear about what Lamar's been saying about you," he taunted.

"What's he been saying?" she questioned.

"I'll tell you when I pick you up for the race tonight. You gonna be home?"

"Fiiiiiine," she caved in. "We can't be out too late though. I've got work at noon."

"I hear you," he stated before hanging up. She switched the phone onto silent then tucked the phone away again. She would just be a paramedic and a friend. Maybe she'd even go as far to return her gun to Ammu-Nation or sell it at a corner pawnshop. Before she tucked the gadget away, the screen lit up. _Transaction alert. Click here to view updated bank statement..._ Melanie drew in a deep breath then clicked the hyperlinked sentence. A new window opened and her stomach flopped.

"Three hundred thousand what?" she muttered, breathless. Sitting up against the ground, she rubbed her tired eyes. It had to be a mistake. After a second, she closed the tab only to reopen it again. Five-hundred dollars had deducted itself from the amount, but the numbers were relatively the same. She hadn't dare check her bank statement she had stopped working at Pillbox Hill Medical Center. Since going back, the thought hadn't even crossed her mind. Judging by the dates beside each deposit, she had earned some change with every job that unfolded with the misfit.

She could pay off her student debt. Maybe she would even schedule more appointment with the therapist. Heart thudding hard in her chest, she clutched the phone to her torso. The urge to cry and shout welled in her throat. She could move out of her apartment. She could buy a new car. Not to mention, she was back on the hospital's pay roll. Melanie tossed a handful of sand and squealed in delight. Maybe Dr. Friedlander was right. It was time for a breather.


	29. Deals on Wheels

"If taking a breather meant riding passenger during an illegal street race on the Olympic Freeway at twice the legal speed limit with the bass line of Radio Los Santos bumping from the car stereo, then she would be doing something right.

"Let's go, Mel. I ain't tryna be late!" Franklin called from the living room.

"I'm coming," she replied, her face in the bedroom mirror as she prissed and primped at her face. She had applied a little eyeshadow, plucked at her eyebrows, and even slightly curled her hair. She almost didn't recognize herself. When she swung open the bedroom door, Franklin immediately spoke up from his spot standing in the hall.

"Oh, hell no. Whatchu trying to prove?"

"What? Do I look bad?" she took a step back. "I just bought this."

"No. Just...different is all. I'mma take a leap down out of my role as stand-in big brother and say, damn. No wonder Lamar and Trevor are smitten," he claimed.

"Hard to tell with Trevor," she quietly complained.

"Oh you mean his new thing with Martin Madrazo's wife? Mike emailed me about that shit. I don't know if I should be worried about the lady for being with T or being with Madrazo."

"You're not helping," she snapped, cutting her eyes in his direction.

"I told you not to get wrapped up in dude in the first place, didn't I?"

"You did. So? Are we racing or not?" she hissed, abruptly ending the conversation.

"After you," he swung open the front door. As the two entered the parking garage across the street, Melanie uncomfortably tugged at the denim shorts she had purchased from Binco just a few hours ago. Franklin clicked a button on his ring of keys and a classic white and matte gray Vapid Dominator chirped as its engine started.

"Wait. What's this?" she half laughed, freezing a few feet shy of the unfamiliar car. A mint green neon light emanated from the bottom of the vehicle, casting an eerie glow about their ankles.

"Gotta have some muscle for a muscle car race," he simply replied.

"Can I ask you something without coming off as nosy?"

"Shoot," he agreed with a shrug. She popped open the passenger door and admired the interior before lowering herself into the seat. He took his place behind the wheel then took his time pulling out of the parking garage.

"How do you afford all this? Your suave little bachelor pad and cars. I swear you're driving something different for every race," she explained.

"Well for one, my crib was a gift from Lester. When we first met, I did a few jobs for him but he was real paranoid about just handing over the funds. As far as the cars go, it just became a hobby. I guess I see something I want, so I buy it. You can get a decent car and trick it into something more. A couple months back, I sorta inherited a tow company down in south Los Santos and recently, I bought a shop in the county my boy Hao owned. That's where I hook up my cars. Both of my businesses generate revenue from customers, naturally. It ain't booming yet, but it'll get there."

When she didn't speak, he continued on.

"You need to treat yourself."

"I did. I went shopping earlier," she countered.

"Big whoop. Some shorts and a tank top. One outfit. I seen some nice houses for sale up in the Hills."

"Are you suggesting I be your neighbor?"

"No, I'm suggesting you move out of that tin can ass apartment. Maybe get something a little closer to your style?" he tried.

"Since you're so classy, enlighten me. What's my style?"

"Not that Penumbra and not that apartment. Look, you look online and find a crib and I'll help with a car. I'll even deck it out for you."

"You don't need to. Trevor already swears you and I were a thing..."

"Ain't nothing to it. I want to do it. And screw Trevor. This is about you right now. What you need to see a therapist for? And why I gotta find shit out like that from Michael instead of from your own mouth?"

"Gee, DAD. I didn't think you'd be interested in the fact that I'm losing my mind," she airily announced.

"Of course I'd be interested. What if one of us gets shot again and you can't help? You stressed is all. I'm alright and I've been running with them longer than you. If you can dig bullets outta me using your bare hands while Trevor and Mike stand 'round with knives and guns, you can keep your head on straight," he declared. He shifted gears and pressed down harder on the gas, breezing through a yellow light and narrowly missing an SUV.

"You need some space," he quietly claimed. "Ain't that why you got out?"

"Yeah."

"Then focus on other things. I know I would if I could, but we ain't finished yet," he muttered with a shake of his head. He brought them to a stop at a red light near a police station. She watched through the tinted window as two police officers with cigarettes between their lips idly chat by a squad car. They didn't even have the slightest clue as to how close they were standing from two criminals. Letting out a deep breath that felt like fire in her throat, she focused her attention through the windshield as they started through the bright green traffic light.

The only sound in the car came from the engine's purring. Franklin switched on the radio as she stared at the numbers of her digital bank statement.

"What's been going on with Lamar?" she broke the silence with a question.

"Fool's been telling the hood he smashed some gun-totin', head-splittin', fine nurse bitty that belongs to another dude," he chuckled.

"I assume that's me," she said with a scoff. "Tell him I'm not attracted to liars."

"You can tell him. He told me he sent you a LifeInvader request but you been ignoring him."

"I'm not on LifeInvader too often," she noted.

"Can't tell his ignorant ass that. That nigga makes time for anything."

Franklin flashed his high beams twice as he approached a group of cars and several racers sitting parked just below the western turnpike of the Olympic Freeway.

"Let me find out Mr. Clinton is early for once," Hao teased as Franklin and Melanie climbed out of the Dominator.

"I'm just as surprised as you are. Why y'all ain't at the starting line yet?" Franklin asked. Melanie walked two fingers across the hood of their car.

"Got word of a new contender in town. He caught word about these streets and called a few nights ago," Hao explained.

"Nothing to it. That's just more money in my pocket," Franklin stated matter of factly. Hao laughed, readjusting the cap on his head.

"IF you win, fool," he noted. "This guy had a lot of talk."

"Yeah, well that's all it is. Talk. Two wins and one narrow loss. I think Frank's been doing alright for himself," Melanie added.

"Oh! She does speak. I thought Mr. Clinton here brought you along as some sort of silent trophy. How you feel about being tonight's countdown?"

"You tryna solicit my good luck charm away from me, Hao?"

"Hell yeah."

"What's a countdown do?"

"You not serious, Melanie. Come on," Franklin complained. Hao grinned, draping an arm over her shoulders and leading her away from her companion.

"When all the racers line up with their cars at the freeway entrance, all's you gotta do is amp everyone up. Smile, blow a kiss or two, work those hips, and when you feel they're ready... Drop this bandanna," he handed over a checkered piece of cloth. "Don't stand too close to anyone. I've witnessed half a dozen chicks get clothes-lined by side mirrors and we don't stop for anyone. What you think?"

"I've got it."

"Word!" he gave her shoulders a squeeze. "Aye, what's your name?"

"Mel."

"Mel," he repeated before starting away. "Cool."

"You agreed, didn't you?" Franklin badgered as she joined his side again. She waved the bandanna and he groaned. Finally a cherry red Gauntlet pulled into the lot, lights flashing. Hao hurried over to meet the new driver.

"I hope this guy knows what he's getting into, making us wait like this," Franklin huffed as he leaned against the side of his car, his arms crossed over his V-neck sweater. Melanie pinched his cheek.

"Aww, are you upset I'm not riding with you anymore?" she teased. He brushed her hand away, his face growing stern.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Gather 'round, gather 'round," Hao called for everyone. Melanie tugged at Franklin's sleeve and begrudgingly made him join the crowd.

"Welcome, welcome. Another night on these sweet LS streets. We got a new face joining us. Let's give Packie a warm welcome," Hao announced.

"PACKIE?" Franklin and Melanie simultaneously exclaimed. The dark-haired, blue-eyed, fairly new paramedic from Pillbox Hill Medical Center pushed off the hood of his Gauntlet and sent the crowd a small nod.

"I thought he was talking 'bout our Packie," Franklin leaned over and whispered. She simply nodded.

"Time to fill the pot. Twelve-hundred or the road," Hao explained. Everyone fished out their wallets and dropped their green currency into the black pail he started around with. Finally, he handed the pail over to Melanie and, again, pulled her into half a hug.

"Tonight's countdown girl..." he glanced at Franklin then snickered. "And good luck charm is Mel, she also goes by the nickname Legs For Days."

Franklin face-palmed himself. A few others whooped and clapped. Her cheeks burned a little.

"You know the rules. Raceway is marked with pink, spray painted arrows. You bail, that's an automatic DQ. LSPD shows up, we split like bananas, but don't let 'em scare you off if you ain't reached that finish line yet. What's under our hoods is a lot more powerful than they junk they got. Alright? Let's get this show on the road!" Hao declared. The crowd hurriedly dispersed. An excited buzz took the air.

"You're not someone I expected to find hanging out with this crowd," Melanie jeered, approaching her coworker. He blinked several times before jumping in his skin.

"Cutlass?" he seemed shocked. "Wow, I didn't..."

"The uniform's a lot less flattering. I know," she interrupted. He nodded, teeth biting into his bottom lip. His cool eyes looked a lot less heavy outside of the hospital.

"You race or...?"

"No. I come here with my cousin," she lied just as Franklin stepped up alongside the two of them. "Packie, this is my cousin, Franklin. Franklin, this is my ambulance partner, Packie."

"Sup man? Don't we got racing to do? Get on behind yo' wheel," Franklin urged.

"I hope you drive as fast as your temper flares," Packie picked.

"What?" Franklin started for him with fists clenched.

"NOPE," Melanie groaned, struggling to keep the burly man at bay. She shook around the pail in her hands.

"What's this? Seven-thousand, two hundred dollars? For one of you? Let's get in our cars, gentlemen!" she urged. Franklin's chest deflated with a huff and he turned to his vehicle.

"I will talk to you two later," she hissed, hurrying away from both men. There were purring engines everywhere. The soles of Melanie's old sneakers squeaked as she started for the entrance ramp, pail in one hand and checked bandanna in the other. Another Gauntlet pulled up in front. A classic Vigero took the spot beside it. This hot pink Hotknife and Hao's black Stallion occupied the second row. In the last row sat Franklin's Dominator and Packie's Gauntlet.

Melanie shook the pail and all the driver's responded with a few quick revs of their engines. She could barely make out the silhouette of each person behind the wheel against the glare of their headlights. The heat from the various, souped up engines showed itself in wisps and vapors in the cool air around them. She tussled her hair and a few spectators whistled, helping to amplify the noise. LSPD hated people like them and it would only be a matter of time until the pigs got wind of the race.

"On your mark," she said to herself. She blew a kiss in Packie's direction. The engines revved again.

"Get set."

She raised both the bucket and the checkered cloth over her head. Just when she thought the temperature around the cars couldn't rise any higher and the engines could rev any louder, a grin crept over her face.

"GO!" she squealed, letting go of the bandanna. A few tires burned out, leaving the air smelling of burnt rubber. Her hair blew back as the cars barreled past her spot in the middle of the road. Just as the last two cars disappeared over the top of the entrance incline, a terrible grating, crunching noise filled the air and a tire came bouncing down the hill. The entire crowd gasped, starting up the steep ramp. Melanie hugged the money to her chest, trying to sprint ahead of everyone.

Just off the shoulder, the cherry red Gauntlet sat on three wheels, it's front left wheel missing. There was smoke billowing from beneath the dented hood of the wrecked car, which had collided with the wall. Melanie didn't hesitate to approach the scene, shoving the pail of winnings into the arms of another spectator. The driver's door swung open and Packie's stumbled out, one hand pressed to his head.

"Are you okay? What the hell happened? Are you hurt?" she urged, pulling him off to the edge of the freeway as traffic continued to whiz past.

"I'm fine. Ow," he insisted. She pulled his hand away from his head to expose a cut in his eyebrow.

"Get back everyone! They'll be coming through for lap two any minute!" someone warned. Someone came scrambling up the hill with traffic cones to place at either side of the wrecked Gauntlet.

"I don't know what happened. Fucking tire just shot off and I lost control. I hit my head on the steering wheel. Fuck. I look like an idiot," he cursed, his fist coming down on the rear of the vehicle.

"Stop," Melanie pulled him away from the car. "It's only your first race. You'll bounce back."

"Yeah? Well I'm already down over a thousand dollars," he complained.

"Franklin splits some of his winning with me. I'll share with you. It's nothing," she reassured him. He scoffed.

"Sounds like you've been doing this a while. How do you know he's gonna win?"

"I just know what I'm talking about," she said, pursing her lips for a moment. "I just know the right people and Franklin knows what he's doing."

The pavement beneath their feet barely trembled as a truck started past. A couple seconds later, the group of muscle cars rumbled by sending breezes of hot air at the spectators. Regular drivers blew their horns at the group. A few people stuck their middle finger up in response.

"See that? Your cousin was in third," Packie pointed out.

"You're a smart ass when we're not clocked in," she responded.

"I think I deserve some merit. I'm better behind the wheel of one of these than I am behind an ambulance. The car I borrowed just doesn't agree with me."

"That isn't yours?" she asked. "Yikes."

"Neighbor let me borrow it for the night as long as I kept the gas tank filled. He doesn't know about the races," he explained.

"You never could've won with that anyway. You can't hop on any four wheels and go. You have to have a bond before you hit the pavement. You gotta know it, feel it."

"Did your cousin spoon feed you that love your car and it'll love you back mumbo jumbo?"

She cut her eyes at him.

"I'd be nicer if I were you," she warned. Everyone started for the lot where the pre-race meeting had been held.

"Your cousin... He wouldn't punch me right in the face if I asked you to dinner tomorrow, would he?" Patrick asked as they scurried across the street. Melanie drew in a slow, deep breath.

"But we're both on-duty tomorrow," she tried.

"I know. I've already got it all mapped out."

She raised an eyebrow at his response. Even standing there with his hands, pride, and dignity stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, a small green bruise forming about his right eye and a dried drip of blood running from his thick eyebrow, she made the new guy out to be cute. Patricia Madrazo crossed her mind. Trevor even looked at her differently.

"You've been planning this a while, huh?" she chimed. Despite ultimately losing the race and wrecking a car that didn't belong to him, Patrick's face lit up.

"I'll be sure to wear an extra clean uniform for you," she jokingly accepted his invitation.

"I'll comb my hair and shave or something," he laughed.

Just like that, the rumbling stampede of six muscle cars in the distance started up again. Melanie claimed the pail of money again then pushed her way to the front of the crowd. Like clockwork, Franklin blew past the finishing point with Hao in his Stallion close behind. Everyone else followed in a blur. The hot cars idled along the edge of the sidewalk.

"Where's ol' boy who wrecked his ride?" Hao howled from his car. "Hey! Don't be sad. The first time is always the hardest!"

Melanie offered a grinning Franklin the winnings before handing the empty bucket to Hao. He quickly pulled away.

"What's that you said before the race?" Franklin taunted as he approached.

"Just some friendly trash talk. I'm sorry, bro," Patrick apologized.

"It's cool. Here," Franklin handed over a couple green bills. "You gonna wanna call a cab to get outta here. LSPD should come peeping any minute. After I drop Mel off and everything, I can back through and tow your car for you. No charge."

Melanie shot Franklin a peculiar look.

"What? I can be nice," he claimed. "Get in the car, girl."

"I'll get your number from Melanie and tell you where the car is," Franklin explained.

"I'll see you at work tomorrow," she called to Patrick before hopping in the car.

"He ask you out, didn't he?" Franklin questioned as he pulled an illegal U-turn and started North. She scoffed.

"Dude just embarrassed himself, but he had that self-satisfied look on his face. I know all about it. I get girls, too,"he insisted.

"Is that why you're gonna tow the Gauntlet for free?"

"That, and I'mma ask if he wants it fixed. If so, that's more than likely a couple thousand right there. I can't milk him dry or else he can't afford to take you some place nice," he broke into laughter.

"Shut up," she playfully slapped his shoulder.

"But on a more serious note," he cleared his throat. "We just not gon' address the elephant in the room?"

Sighing, she settled deeper into the passenger seat.

"If Trevor finds out, it's basically a wrap for dude."

"Oh, bullshit," she started up, sitting up again. "I haven't properly heard from T since I went out there myself yesterday morning. Do you know what that's like? I don't know what's happening. He usually sends texts around the clock, constant updates and mindless conversation. As soon as the FIB cut me loose, he like completely flopped. Now, he's pining over some married woman. You should see the way he looks at her."

"Damn. Breathe. Here," he pressed a button to let her window down. She closed her eyes for a second, sucking in cool air.

"Do you know what almost forty-eight Trevor-less hours feels like when you're used to him poking and prodding around the clock?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"Nah. I don't really. I mean, I get what you're saying, but when I said you should focus on other things, well... I ain't mean just drop my nigga like that."

"I'm not. I'm just...trying to enjoy myself. What's a free dinner?"

"Is that all it is? Dinner?"

"Yes. Dinner with my partner."

"So you don't like him?"

"I haven't decided yet," she huffed, crossing her arms. Deep chortles left his throat.

"You're a piece of work. Wait till Lamar gets wind of this shit here. That motherfucker might go all Apache killer on dude himself."


	30. First Dates

"Alright, alright. Your turn, Melanie. Truth or dare?" Theodore asked.

"Um," Melanie leaned back in her metal chair to catch a cashew in her mouth after she tossed it in the air. "Dare."

"I dare you and Alex to do ten push-ups."

"Really!" the only other girl in the room cried out. Alex punched Melanie on the shoulder as both women lay down on the floor. They cranked out their exercises before reclaiming their seats in the lopsided circle of coworkers.

"Truth or dare, Packie?"

"Truth," he decided, his eyes on his phone.

"Is it true you street race?" Theo trialed. Melanie's eyes darted to Theodore's then to Patrick's.

"How do you...?" he rapidly shook his head. "I'm gonna plead the fifth. I'll take a different question."

"Do you have a thing for Melanie?"

The entire office erupted in a chorus of 'oooh'. She clapped a hand over her face. The tops of Patrick's ears glowed red.

"Yeah," he confessed. "I do, but no worries, guys. We'll keep it strictly professional on the clock so Nicky doesn't find out and-"

"So Nicky doesn't find out about what?" came Mrs. Mills' voice as she shuffled into the common area. The entire group went quiet.

"Uh huh," their supervisor huffed. "You all better enjoy this slow day before I find some work for you to do."

No one responded, the entire room sticking to silence until Mrs. Mills pushed her way back through the double doors.

"Carter, truth or dare?" Theodore announced.

"I told you all already. I'm not playing," Carter called over his shoulder. He was branched off from the group, sitting on the leather couch with a crossword in his hands.

"Just pick one," Theodore insisted and most everyone pleaded after him.

"Fine. Truth," Carter obliged. Melanie waited, her eyes on the back of his head.

"What's the craziest thing you've ever had happen to you at a response site?"

"Oh, I know the answer to this one," Benny laughed.

"You mean besides that Grove Street ambush with Cutlass?" he rhetorically questioned. Melanie glanced down at her hands, plucking at callouses.

"My partner can tell you about the call we took at the Kortz Center a week or so back," he continued. Benny immediately started with his boisterous laughter.

"We got a call about an unconscious child in the middle of the hedge maze at the Kortz Center. The center's security guard led us through the maze to the scene. Get this - it's not a child and they're not unconscious, This grown man is kneeling on the ground, stark naked, with a mouth full of fucking 'shrooms..."

Melanie stopped listening as everyone erupted into cackles. She slipped out of the circle and took a seat beside Carter across the office.

"Can I help you?" he spoke up before she could even exhale.

"How're you doing?"

"Me? I was fine before you clocked in and your friends started your childish game," he explained. She put up both hands.

"I'm trying to be civil with you-"

"Civil?" he stuffed away the crossword. "After all the shit you shouted at me in the parking lot, you want civil?"

"Hostility is not permitted in a healthy work environment," she recited.

"Fuck off, Cutlass," his eyes flashed. "At least with distance between you and me, I know my family and I are safe from people like you and your friends."

Actively working to keep calm, she took in a deep breath and let it out slow. Dr. Friedlander probably would have been impressed. She started to say something else when a Weazel News breaking news bulletin flashed across the television mounted in the corner. The entire office automatically fell silent to listen.

 _"The future of Merryweather's high-value courier service, which was pitched to clients as guaranteed safe transportation of sensitive or precious cargo, lies in jeopardy today after one of their trains was derailed and robbed in Blaine County's Raton Canyon. The identity of the hijackers is still unknown. It is the latest in a series of teething problems for Merryweather's domestic operations but Don Percival assured us in a phone call that outsourcing security will still prove better for everyone in the long run."_

"Hell. Look at that..." Carter murmured as all the camera switched to a helicopter's birds eyes view of the wreckage. Entire train cars were partially submerged in the river.

"I wonder if your partners know anything about that," he subtly chided. Her lips pursed. She had heard Trevor mention the name Merryweather once before and he was just about only one of two men she knew wily enough to rob a train. Him and Michael. They were out in Blaine County making a mess. She decided then she would call Franklin later to ask if he knew anything about it.

"I'm just glad that out of city limits," Alex announced over everyone. "Out of our hands."

Most of the day went on like this. With the exception of one call that sent Benjamin and Carter to the MazeBank Arena and another that whisked Alex and Theodore to a domestic violence dispute in Chumash, the city had been relatively quiet. Mrs. Mills broke that silence almost an hour before it was time for the next shift.

"Cutlass! O'Neil!" she called from her own office. The two stuck their heads in her doorway.

"You're on standby until the next shift arrives," she explained. "Keep your radio on"

"Ay' ay', captain," Melanie sent the woman a mock salute then hurried away before she could snap back.

"Were you still up for that dinner invite?" Patrick asked as the duo exited from the rear of the hospital. Ambulance number four was restored after its accident and now sat gleaming under the streetlights.

"Sure. What do you have up your sleeve?"

"Nothing too fancy," he claimed, taking the driver's seat. She climbed into the passenger and buckled up. After starting the engine, Patrick started through the city. Melanie turned on the radio in the dash. Police were already chatting away as the city seemed to wake up the higher the moon ventured into the sky.

"What's the status on your neighbor's car?" she questioned.

"Your cousin called this morning and said it'll be about a week before he can get it back to me. I went ahead and told me neighbor I wrecked it so he wouldn't expect it back any time soon," he explained. She cringed.

"Does he hate you yet?"

"Actually, after I told him I hit a wall while swerving to miss a stray dog, he was more concerned about me and said dog than the car," he explained with a laugh.

"Looks like some of my cleverness is rubbing off on you. Real smooth, Patrick. Bring animals or kids into it and everyone turns into a sucker," she remarked.

"Just trying to keep my ass covered. You didn't tell Theo I race, did you?"

"Definitely not. Then I would've told on myself as well. It's _Los Santos_. Everyone knows someone who knows something about someone else. Considering you nearly totaled a classic muscle car before the race could even start right proper, it makes sense for you to make the headlines."

He sighed and shook his head a few times.

"I still can't believe that happened. Fuck. I can't show my face at another race again."

"Bull you can't. You just need another car."

"Yeah, let me just pull another one out of my ass," he joked. "You alright with burgers and fries?"

Melanie looked up from her phone and found them parked in the lot of Vinewood's Up N Atom. She popped open her door first.

"Can't complain. I haven't eaten since breakfast."

"Good. I'm buying," he offered.

The two emerged later with bags of cheeseburgers and curly fries.

"Not yet," Patrick insisted as Melanie started to tear into her bag. She sent the man a peculiar look. He started the engine and continued driving North, following the winding roads through the hills. The radio crackled in the dashboard with Mrs. Mills' voice telling them the next shift had arrived.

"I believe they can spare ten minutes," he noted. "What do you think?"

"About..?" she looked around. A security guard waved the vehicle through a gate and he parked. Melanie followed close behind as he led the way down a dirt road. The air was cool. A generator was humming somewhere. Eventually, the narrow road opened to the city's VINEWOOD sign.

"Well shit," Melanie took a few steps back as she tried to drink in the over-sized letters towering over bright white lights in the dark. Los Santos glistened below.

"In all my time here, I never paid this sign much attention."

"Really? This is the city of dreams. Everyone wants to be here, but not everyone can make it. I've been fascinated with this place since my plane landed and I considered, since we're both from LC, we could use some new sights," he explained.

"You got that right," she breathlessly sighed, unable to tear her eyes from the city below. He gently elbowed her in the side before he took a seat in a thick patch of grass. She followed suit and the two began to eat.

"I can't remember the last time I ate a meal that wasn't fast food," she sighed into her half-eaten burger.

"Maybe I can whip you up something special one of these days?" he suggested to which she winced.

"You've done loads enough for me already," she politely declined. A pit was forming in her gut.

"You don't think I can cook?" he laughed. She quit forcing the burger down her throat. It didn't taste right anymore. She stared out at the city.

"I'm sorry, Patrick," she finally let out. His happy chewing slowed before stopping all together. His eyes met her face and she looked down, plucking at blades of grass.

"There's someone else," he simply stated, the pep in his voice now gone. She nodded slowly.

"I figured. I mean, this was kind of sudden and I wasn't exactly patient in asking you out," he babbled.

"It's not you. Don't out yourself," she reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I've been feeling a lot lately and there's things going on that I can't even fathom explaining. I recently started seeing a therapist. Hopefully he'll help me sort things out. You wouldn't like me once you _really_ got to know me anyway."

"Shut up. You're perfect," he revealed.

"There's no such thing," she scoffed.

"Well I'm cool with being the...rebound," he dabbled, leaning back on an elbow and turning his light eyes to the sky. "I don't have many friends in the city, so you make for a great start. If we can let this go and pretend we're still just partners, I'd be alright."

His politeness made her queasy. Why wasn't he pressing the issue or agitated? She almost didn't like it.

"You sure? I'll pay you for my food and we can swap partners-"

He shook his head.

"It's not like we got serious about it. If you won't make it awkward, I won't."

"Well well well," she lilted. "If only everyone were as forgiving as you."

"You mean Carter?"

She shot him a look.

"You can cut the tension in the air around you two with a knife. He's not the one I'm rebounding, right? I can handle a shit ton, but I think that would be enough to drive me to work at a different hospital. He would decimate me."

"Nah," she answered, biting back a laugh. "Carter's the least of our worries. He and I were best friends, but I threw it away for new friends."

"You can have different sets of friends. I know we can be childish at the office, but we're definitely not kids," he explained. "If he can't forgive you, I don't think it's your fault."

The pit in her stomach inched higher until she swallowed it back down.

"Shit happens. You said it yourself, _it's Los Santos_."

"I don't feel one-hundred percent okay with blaming this city for my shitty decision making," she said with a small laugh. The walkie talkie on his waist crackled.

"Where the hell are you, O'Neil?" Mrs. Mills demanded.

"I think it's time to hit the road," Patrick said. He snatched the device off his hip and responded,

"Sitting in traffic. We'll be there any minute."

Melanie tossed the Up N Atom bags in a dumpster before hurrying and climbing into the ambulance behind him.

"I'm not paying you overtime," Mrs. Mills barked. With that, Patrick switched on the sirens and started South again.


	31. Forgive And Forget-Me-Not

"MEEEEEELANIEEEEEEE!"

Heavy knocks against Melanie's apartment's door vibrated through the quiet abode. She groaned, the eyes that had just closed a few hours ago cracking open to stare at the dim ceiling. When the knocking wouldn't stop, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her head pounded in sync with the nuisance. She swiftly exited her bedroom and padded down the hall, impatiene rising. The howling continued as she rubbed sleep from her eyes. Who else could it possibly be at this time of night making that sort of noise?

"MEEEEEELANIEE! Open the door! Uncle T needs lovin'!"

Of course. The sleeping pills sloshing around in her gut made her nauseous in her wake. Her head was swimming. She clenched her jaw tight. The nerve of him after what he had pulled. It had been days and this way how he wanted to make his grand re-entrance? More knocking followed his wails. The sudden burning anger in her chest came from out of nowhere, rearing itself up from ashes and into a blazing flame.

Snatching open the front door, she found Trevor kneeling on the stoop. Immediately, he threw two arms about her legs and pressed his face into her t-shirt.

"I missed you so much. I couldn't get here fast enough. Why didn't you answer my calls? I called you a few minutes ago. I thought I could depend on you?" his muffled voice cried. She could feel her tanktop's fabric growing damp with the fluids leaking from his face.

"I just finished a twenty-four hour shift and I'm trying to sleep. What do you want?" she hissed.

"I know I ain't been treating you right lately, but lemme make it up to ya. Uncle T just needs some TLC. I feel so bad," he sniffled. She managed to pry him away from her frame. She grabbed his face and made him look up at her. As she bent over to get a whiff of his breath, he puckered his lips for a kiss but she quickly shoved his head away.

"Don't be hard on me. I ain't mean nothin' by nothin'," he claimed.

"You smell like an entire liquor store," she stated with a frown, her heart sinking. "Not to mention your pupils are twice their normal size."

"I lit up, alright? Is that what you wanna hear? I smoked. I couldn't help myself," he revealed in a weakened tone. She sighed. Part of her didn't want him inside but he couldn't be on the road in the condition he was in. He would be a threat to any and everyone out in Los Santos at this hour. He was probably a threat to her, too, but she wasn't considering those possibilities at the moment. Another part of her was growing overly ecstatic to find the man in her presence again, even if he was under the influence.

"I'll call a taxi. You need to go home and sleep this off," she claimed.

"No. NO," he tightened his arms around her legs. "Here. I can do that here. It's been so long."

"No, not here. You know how I feel about your drugs," she tried.

"I won't try nothin'. I'll sleep on the couch if you want me to," he insisted.

"Go home. Maybe we'll talk tomorrow when you're better," she forced through her teeth. He froze, his bleary eyes on hers. She looked away, her arms crossed over her chest. There was a pit in her throat. Conflicted emotions swirled in her chest. When he was away, she had wanted to be infuriated with him, but now that he was kneeling in front of her, remorse heavy on his features, she couldn't think of anything she would enjoy more than to curl up beside the madman.

When she didn't respond with anything else, he rose to his feet in a docile manner. With a couple barely noticeable nods, he stepped down off the stoop and shuffled down the sidewalk. She quickly shut and locked the door. How dare he think he could just pick and choose when and who he wished to devote time to. She could feel herself growing frustrated at the suddenly visible hypocrisy present. If this was how she had made Carter feel all those many months ago, she realized his agitation with her.

Without warning, the front door came flying in with a kick. She yelped, jumping inches into the air. As though he was never a blubbering mess, Trevor marched into the apartment. His eyes were ablaze.

"Where is he? Hm? Who is it?" he barked.

"I said, get out," she urged, fighting the crack in her voice. He shouldered past, making his way inside. She stood frozen in place. Her fists were tight by her sides and she grit her teeth together so hard that it made her jaw hurt. She could taste iron in her mouth.

He snatched open the hall closet and pried apart the jackets and hats, poking his head inside. He stormed into the kitchen.

"Who is it? Huh? He here?"

"No one's here," she explained.

"Come out, come out wherever you are!" he sang in a sick tone.

"You need to leave!" she warned. His eyebrows shot up and he pressed a hand to his chest as though offended.

"Where are my manners? Maybe I should try and be more civilized. M'alright. What's his name?" he asked, his hands shooting to his hips.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied. He marched over and gripped her face in one of his rough hands.

"What did I tell you, hmph? You're absolute SHIT at hiding things. Shiiiit, Melanie. You think I don't know what you've been doin' since I've been outta the city?"

She tried to snatch away but he only squeezed her jaw tighter. He placed his other hand on the back of her neck, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes were shining bright in the dim room. This was probably the most awake he had been in months and he knew exactly what he was talking about. She swallowed hard.

"If I remember correctly, just a few weeks ago I was told that I was more than welcome here. Suddenly I ain't even allowed through the front door?" he bellowed.

"Cause it's four in the fucking morning and you're pumped full of who knows how much meth and alcohol," she argued. Sucking in air through his teeth, Trevor let her go and she staggered around a few steps until catching herself against the counter. Her face throbbed. He rubbed his eyes and pulled at his hair. Both his hands were pressed to his face. She was sure she could hear him quietly laughing.

"I'm gonna ask again and I demand some honest fuckin' answers because there's only one reason why this whole situation is even happening," he slowly explained. "You think I don't know what betrayal feels like? What it looks like? What it smells like? That it can come from the people you care about the most? Huh?"

She jumped as he barked the last syllable. Her heart was beating rampant in her chest. She could see he was breathing hard already. Now this was the man she had encountered the first time they met; the man with the wild eyes and no brakes or boundaries. It was suddenly clear to her why the Federal Investigation Bureau wanted to have him taken out. He wagged a finger in her direction, a scolding tone slipping onto his tongue.

"Is it Frank?"

"Of course not," she quickly answered.

"Who?"

"Why does it matter so much?" she cried.

"Quite frankly, I'm sick of liars. A man's got the right to know the truth, don't he?"

"I didn't say anything when you replaced me with your new housewife," she warranted with a little roll of her eyes.

"Mrs. Madrazo is a nice woman, but she's married so I had to give her back. We ain't gonna talk about the lady behind her back."

Her eyes cut at him.

"But I was as loyal to you as a dog," he took a small step forward. "All I ask for is the same."

"We had dinner a couple days ago. That's it," she finally revealed.

"What kind of dinner?"

"Up N Atom. Shit, Trevor! Why does this matter so much to you?" she exclaimed with a stomp of her foot.

"I expected the fat turd to stab me in the back, but you too?" he slurred. "You belong to me. You're mine. You're supposed to be mine."

She clung on to his first sentence.

"Wait, what are you talking about? What happened?" she added with a ridiculous frown, but he was already on his knees again, a blubbering mess wrapped around her waist once more. She forced out a sigh and rest her hands on his shoulders. He was covered in a film of sweat and reeked like wet dirt.

"Come on," she reluctantly muttered, tugging at his arms. She draped his right arm over her shoulders and helped lug the man to his feet. The two almost fell over twice on their way to her bathroom. There were still tears on his face when she stripped the clothes off his sticky frame then pushed him into a warm shower. He stood there, staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

"Trevor..." she started, only to bite her tongue. Instead, she grabbed a washcloth to lather him up herself then rinsed the suds down the drain.

"Here," she thrust a dry towel in his direction then opened the bathroom door.

"Where ya going?" he blurted. She didn't think she had ever heard him speak so softly before.

"Be right back," she said, trying to conceal any disapproval in her voice. The dirty green duffel he had brought over months ago still sat in the living room, untouched.

"Here," Melanie returned to the bathroom with it in her clutch. "Just...dry off and put something on."

She left the bathroom again before he could say anything else. Her face hurt a little and her eyes were burning. She quickly swiped away a few tears as she shut her bedroom door and crawled back into the bed. There was a knock at the door a moment later. She bit her tongue, hugging the sheets tighter around her. He knocked again and she sighed.

"What?"

The door pushed open and Trevor entered the room. Before she could protest, he had pulled back the cotton sheets and laid down on the other side of the mattress. She froze, but after a moment one of his warm arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her in close. She let out a small huff against the amount of strength he used to squeeze her tight against his chest. His muscles remained tense against hers until she let her fingers lace with his at her waist. His nose nuzzled in her hair and with a deep sigh against the skin of her neck, he was out like a lamp.

She lie there, staring at the digital clock across the room. The way his personalities flipped and flopped, she should be suffering from whiplash. Instead, she noticed she had almost missed it. Almost. She relaxed against him, taking in the lulling sound of his deep breathing before succumbing to the comfort of his warmth.

* * *

The horrific sound of retching snapped Melanie out of her slumber. Sitting up, she pulled her knees to her chest, waiting. What kind of mind frame would he be in today? She heard the toilet flush down the hall before he stepped into the room a couple moments later. Clad in just a pair of bright pink briefs and a toothbrush poking out from between his lips, he resembled a rabid dog with the foam on his mouth and heavy, bloodshot eyes lingering on her. He leaned over the tiny metal trash can in the corner and, despite it's lack of a garbage bag, spat out the contents of his mouth. She closed her eyes and let out a breath. Trevor would always be Trevor.

"I borrowed your toothbrush," he explained. He smacked his lips together and sat the tiny stick of bristles on the dresser.

"I can see that," she softly replied. She climbed out of the bed just as the alarm on her phone went off. She swiped up the device, silencing the ringer and reading a "Good morning partner" text message from Patrick. She pressed Erase after glancing in Trevor's direction. She brushed past him in the doorway on her way to the bathroom. He appeared in the bathroom mirror behind her as she withdrew a new toothbrush for herself.

"What? No good mornin'?" he growled in her ear. His arms wrapped around her waist and his lips lingered at her neck. She enjoyed the feeling of his stubble against her skin for a second before she whirled around on her heel. Her open palm struck him across the face. Trevor stumbled back and brandished his cheek, an unfamiliar look of pure shock scribbled across his features.

"I'll take one for the team and say, I might have deserved that."

She reared back to strike again but he caught her wrist.

"Use your words," he ordered.

"You're just gonna act like these past few days and last night didn't happen?" she asked, wriggling free of his grip.

"I got something to do with Franklin and Lamar. We can talk about it later. Right now, I don't want you mad at me. How can I fix it?" he purred as he took several steps closer.

"I'm gonna be mad at you until I get an explanation and you apologize," she snapped.

"For what?" he folded open his arms and tossed back his head.

"Mrs. Madrazo, blowing me off, showing up here shit-faced?"

"Whoa there, cowgirl. Don't act like you're the victim here. Yeah I didn't reply to a couple texts or calls of yours, but you admitted to sucking a guy off in my absence."

"I said we had dinner, you idiot!" she hissed. "Jesus. I don't see how you and Michael have been friends this long without wanting to kill each other."

"Oh, there have been some pretty low blows between us. Believe that," he hummed, rocking back and forth on his feet. He let out a wicked laugh to which she scoffed and brushed past him again.

"How were things in the desert with Michael? Were you two behind that train derailment up in the canyon?"

"Why are you so suddenly obsessed with him? Jeez. Can we change the subject?"

She looked at him, eyebrows furrowed deeply together.

"Okay? Fuck off," she snapped, shutting her bedroom door in his face. She didn't know if it was the drugs and the alcohol making him seem so flushed, but she didn't like it.

"Real mature, sweet pea," he pushed his way inside the room and snatched her up in a close embrace.

"Don't get dressed yet. I've missed you. I wanna look at ya," Trevor ordered. She let her body go limp alongside his. All this time, she wanted to be upset, but it was a difficult task with him now literally breathing down her neck. It seemed his attachment issues were beginning to rub off on her, because she let herself grin until she felt his half-erect member rub against her navel. She put a few inches of space between his hips and hers, rising a groan out of him.

"Sweet pea, no," he complained. He pressed a hand to her lower back, bringing her against him again. This time, she returned the pressure. His grip on her t-shirt tightened and he leaned over to kiss her on the mouth, only to be greeted with a face of cool air as she swiftly avoided the connection.

"I've got work and you said you had stuff to do with Franklin and Lamar," she reminded him in a low tone. If he wanted to be an asshole about it, she could return the favor. She tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck with her fingers and he hissed through his teeth. He leaned over again, but she tucked her chin, chuckling a little this time.

"Franklin and Lamar and the hospital can wait. Come on. You've been a bad girl and Uncle T needs to punish you," he taunted. The thoughts in her head and the words leaving his slick tongue made her shudder, but she wouldn't let her willpower give in. She lifted one leg and hitched it at his waist. He slipped a hand under her knee and caressed the underside of her thigh. Where his calloused fingers lingered, her skin tickled and pricked like needles. His warm, minty breath tickled her face. She tugged at his hair again, pulling him close so she could whisper in his ear,

"I'm not having sex with you while you're high."

"I'm not high. I'm coming down, baby. I'm coming down," he pitifully muttered. He was a hot, sweating mess, rhythmically pumping his hips against her now and biting his bottom lip with his eyes closed. Her chest hurt from her heart beating so hard. She had never seen him so vulnerable and soft. For once, she had made herself feel powerful against the criminal.

"Come on," he drawled out, his eyes still closed as he pressed his forehead against hers. "Let me take care of you."

"But I can take care of myself," she whispered before standing on her toes to kiss his lips once. His eyes shot open when she abruptly pulled away this time. He took her waist and pulled her back. She would be lying if she said his strength didn't make her want to strip right then and there. Instead of giving in, she took his hands off her waist and stepped back from him.

"What's a man gotta do for the second most beautiful woman in the world to not send him off to work with a case of blue balls?" he pleaded. She raised an eyebrow.

" _Second_ most? I'll remember that. Do you think you're the only one starting the day off _unsatisfied_?" she dared ask. He groaned, both his hands covering his throbbing erection from her wandering eyes. The icing on the cake.

"You're a bigger asshole than I thought you'd ever amount to be when I first laid eyes on you," he complained as he began to dress himself. She laughed, pulling her shirt over her head then slipping into her work blouse.

"We'll sort out our priorities later," she explained. "On one condition."

"Anything," he breathed. She waited until he was done tucking a striped polo into his pants and zipped up the seam.

"I only work eight hours today. When I get off, you go with me to see Dr. Friedlander."

"I don't need therapy. He's an overpaid piece of shit anyway. He didn't help Mike none, he can't help me. I ain't goin' and no amount of teasing can make me go," he declared. Without a word, Melanie made her way over. He looked down his nose at her with a cautious glare. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him with all the might she could muster without losing herself in the process. Her wet, hot tongue slipped past her lips to part his mouth and wrestle with his own pink muscle. Trevor let out an odd grunt and kicked one of his legs back before she ended the exchange with a deep exhale. His eyes were heavy with a new-found desire when she met his gaze.

"I'm not that much of an asshole. I just wanted to show you what you've been missing. I won't make you go with me, but you're gonna have to wait till I get back here. Then we will have our talk before I _think_ about forgiving you and letting you back in," she stated, placing damp pecks against the tattoo around his neck. She felt him swallow hard.

"I ain't gonna hurt you. I promise," his voice was shaky.

"We'll talk about it later," she pried away and finished getting dressed. He tugged and pulled at the crotch of his pants, mumbling under his breath. After a few more minutes of silence, the two left the apartment together.

"The fuck is this?" he declared. He squinted against the mid-morning sun to make out an unfamiliar car parked along the curb.

"Oh, you didn't see this last night?" she questioned coolly. "Decided to treat myself. Franklin let me have it."

She pressed a button on her keys and the car chimed. His eyes ran the length of the gray and white Dominator Franklin had used to win his race just a few nights ago. 'MEL' was printed on both the front and rear license plates. She popped open the door and claimed the driver's seat. Trevor marched around the car and rapped his knuckles on the tinted glass.

"Yeah?" she rolled down the window.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, hands stuffed deep in his pants pockets. Melanie beamed. She didn't expect to ever hear those words, even after the talk they would have later. She reached out, grabbed a fist full of his collar, and pulled him closer. After pressing a kiss to his cheek, she pushed him away then drove off.


	32. Who's Afraid Of The Big, Bad Wolf?

Patrick tossed a peanut in the air then leaned his chair back on two legs and caught the snack in his mouth.

"What's a six letter synonym for 'fight'?" Melanie asked aloud.

"Noun or verb?" Alex questioned from her seat behind a computer.

"Either or. Last letter is an E," Melanie explained.

"Mm. 'Battle'?" Patrick suggested.

"That works," she noted. "Thanks."

"Melly, when you email your reports to Nicky, do you send them as attachments of just copy and paste the body into the actual email itself?" Alex inquired.

"Send them as attachments. I heard she likes to download and file them away on thumb drives for future reference in case one of us fucks up."

"As if. Our department's one of the best in the city. We'd probably be THE best if you and Carter would put aside whatever differences you have and work together again," Alex criticized. Melanie sighed, shooting Patrick a glance.

"I think that era has come to an end," he spoke up.

"Ooh. Look at junior cub scout here sticking up for his woman," Alex teased. "When's the wedding?"

"I'll make sure you're number one on the guest list when we figure it out," he answered.

"Can I be the best man?" Theodore interjected.

"Best man? Who's getting married?"

All eyes in the room shifted to Benjamin as he and Carter came trudging in.

"Melanie and Patrick," Alex claimed. "We're all invited."

"Benny, what the heck happened to you?" Theodore questioned. Melanie looked up to find her coworker pressing an ice pack to his nose, which was obviously broken.

"There was more than just a shooting at that Raven Slaughterhouse in Cypress Flats. I almost got mowed down by two sports cars peeling away from the place," he explained. "Had to jump out of the way. Cost me my beautiful face."

"You get a good look at the perps?" Melanie checked. Carter turned his attention her way.

"He didn't. We were too busy counting bodies and helping the coroner. Ready, Benny?" Carter asked, stepping up to his partner and framing his crooked nose between his gloved fingers.

"Not at all," he answered in a nasally voice. Seconds later, the disgusting pop of his cartilage being forced back into place made the entire room cringe.

"Fuck. Thanks man," Benny groaned.

"How many were there?" Patrick questioned.

"Well over twenty. You can read my report when I'm finished, kid. It looked like it may have been gang related," Carter suggested. Melanie's eyes rolled at his tone of voice. He tossed the latex gloves in a trash bin then took a seat on the opposite end of the couch. She watched him stare into space for a while before sliding across the cushions and situating herself beside him.

"Need to use my computer to file your work?" she asked. He shook his head.

"I've got mine. I just... Give me a second," he dismissed. She tucked one of her legs beneath her. That was the most he had said to her in what felt like ages.

"Something tells me what went down at the slaughterhouse had something to do with your friends," he said.

"Don't start. I've been here all day. That's them. That's not me, Carter," she quickly let out, almost begging.

"The coroner ran out of body bags," he stated. "There was even a guy boiled to death in a vat of oil."

Her eyes closed for a moment. Whatever mess the three men had managed to make, if it even was their doing, sounded horrendous.

"You don't know for sure if it was them," she countered.

"Is that cousin of yours still in the city? The one I met a few months back?" he asked, looking her way.

"I think so. Why?"

Carter rubbed his eyes and slouched against the cushion.

"I swear I saw him in one of the cars speeding away from the scene."

Melanie collapsed against the cushion and scratched at her forehead. It had to be them if Franklin had been there. Her hand instinctively flew to her back pocket only to come up flat. She forgot she had left her phone in the locker room for once, following her therapist's orders and searching for more outer peace to aid with her search for inner peace.

"I don't know," Carter continued with a small sigh. "I'm exhausted."

"You should try for a nap," she suggested.

"Nah. I've got work to start," he shot the watch on his wrist a glance. "You and boy wonder over there should be getting ready to clock out."

"Leave Packie alone. He's been hanging on for the ride. He's got some big shoes to fill," she stated with a hint of laughter.

"You're damn right he does."

"Carter?" she called as he started to stand.

"Yeah?"

She let out a deep breath, plucking at the clear polish on her fingernails.

"I'm sorry about everything and for threatening you. It's good actually talking like civilized people. I miss it," she quietly revealed.

"Yeah. Me too," he agreed before disappearing to the locker room. He reemerged with his computer and a pen clutched between his teeth. She was tempted to continue the conversation, but he took a seat beside Alex's work space and the two began chatting. Their conversation had went smoother than expected. He had every right to want to continue being distant. If he never forgave her, she would understand.

The next shift's duo pushed through the office doors.

"Finally," Patrick cheered. He wasted no time hurrying off to clock out. Melanie stood just in front of the black leather couch and quietly surveyed the room. Everyone seemed content. The atmosphere was peaceful. Alex and Carter busily typed at their reports on their personal computers. Despite his injury, Benny was already grunting away on the weights in the recreation room. Theodore's eyes were glued to the television, his legs kicked up in a metal chair in front of him. The next shift chat with one another as they waited for Patrick to step away from the computer.

"Can you sign me out too, Packie?" she called. He shot a thumbs up her way.

They had no idea. Just how many of their ambulance riders and hospital admitees were a result of Michael, Trevor, and Franklin's wrongdoings? How many of her own coworkers brushed with danger caused by the three? How many of their long-distance partners in Blaine County dealt with Trevor's havoc? How many people had she hurt herself when she worked with them?

"You alright, Mel?"

"What?" she blinked and locked eyes with Patrick. For just a brief moment, he looked at her the same way Michael did.

"Ready to go?" he held open the door to the locker room. Shaking her head clear, she hurried in to fetch her bag out of a locker.

"What have you got planned for the evening?" he asked from a few spaces down at a locker of his own.

"I've got a hot date with a microwave lasagna and my couch," she chimed. "You?"

"How's about a drink with me?"

"I can't, Packie. We already talked about this-"

"I got it. Just friends. It's just drinks. Just one. I'm still fairly new in town and you lot at the hospital are my only friends. I can't go out drinking alone. I can't let myself look that sad in public," he pleaded. She shook her head.

"I don't know. I don't want to give any other chicks the wrong impression. I might block you from scoring a hottie."

"It'll be alright. There's only one chick I'm interested in," he tried. She shook her head a little.

"And I'm sure she'd enjoy a drink better than a microwave dinner and an America's Next Top Model marathon," he coaxed.

"I prefer Law and Order, mind you," she chuckled. As she considered taking up his offer, her cell phone buzzed in the side pocket of her duffel bag. Patrick leaned against a locker and patiently lingered as she answered the phone call.

"Yeah?"

"Need you at Mike's, ASAP," Franklin stated.

"Everything okay?"

"Far fucking from it."

She knew what that meant.

"I'm on the way."

"I guess that'll be a rain check?" Patrick assessed with a small sigh.

"Afraid so. My cousin needs me," she explained.

"Tell him I said thanks again for fixing that car for me."

"Will do," she obliged with a nod as she pushed through a side exit door leading to the parking lot.

* * *

The engine of the Dominator purred as Melanie eased into a halt behind the Feltzer crookedly parked at the top of Michael's driveway. The Dominator chirped as she pressed the locking mechanism on her key chain and slowly rounded the other vehicle. Both the Feltzer's bumpers were missing and the rear made out to be Swiss cheese with all the bullet holes. If it wasn't the three stooges at the slaughterhouse, then whoever they had pissed off this time was not to be bothered with.

The front door to Michael's house opened and Franklin stepped onto the stoop.

"Hey," he greeted.

"Always nice seeing you, Frankie. Where's Michael?"

"Right here," the older man joined the two of them, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

"Sheesh..." Melanie whispered, looking him up and down. There was a mean green bruise around his left eye and a cut across his nose. He was covered in bruises and blood.

"And the other one?" she asked, eyes darting about, waiting for the third stooge to push his way out of the house.

"Trevor went crazy and tried to kill me but I got jumped by the Chinese."

"The Chinese?" she repeated. "What have they got to jump you for? Trevor's the one who screwed them over. Why'd he try to kill you?"

"Don't bullshit, Mike. Tell her what you told me," Franklin insisted. Her eyes darted between the two men.

"We can talk inside," she sent a cautious glance over her shoulder. "Just let me grab a pack out of the trunk."

"I got it," Franklin volunteered, taking the keys and starting for her car.

"Come on. I'll pour you a drink. You're gonna need it," Michael explained. Just when she thought they couldn't get any crazier...

"It's that bad?" she asked, following him inside.

"It all just depends on how you look at it," he said with a sigh. He slid a shot of whiskey across the cluttered island and she wasted no time in gulping it down. She hissed against the burning sensation it left in her chest. The front door closed and Franklin entered the room, one of Melanie's kits in his grasp. Michael slid another drink in her direction.

"No thanks. I've gotta fix you up," she declined.

"Suit yourself," he said before knocking back the drink himself.

"Alright. Let me hear it," she urged, cracking open the pack of supplies and starting toward him with an alcohol wipe in hand.

"I made a judgment call. I don't know if it was the right one," he started.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean with Trevor and Brad and the FIB."

"Who's Brad?"

"An old running buddy. Look, I did what I thought I had to do. I had a young family, kid. I was running with a crew of crazy motherfuckers with nothing to lose. I saw an out; a future for me, a future for my family. So I took it."

She paused in her dabbing at his nose and took a step back. Franklin was shaking his head.

"Wait," she said as her mind slowly began to go to work. "I don't... I'm not like you guys. I don't understand."

"He burned everyone he ever knew. Why do you think he had us working for the feds? He sold his people out," Franklin explained.

"And Trevor?" she quietly asked.

"Yeah, but it was either that or die," he claimed. She scoffed and set down her supplies then rest her elbows on the counter.

"Are you telling me you sold out your best friend to the FIB and THAT'S why we were working for them?"

"I made a deal, but I fucked that up when we took Vangelico. Don't be mad. You'll understand one day when you've got ties of your own. You'll wake up one day and your legs will just give and you can't run anymore. You can't lie anymore, Mel. By then, hopefully you won't even be able to remember the last time you even spoke to me or Franklin or Trevor. You can't have both lives."

"This is bullshit," she remarked. Franklin grabbed her shoulders and spun her back around to face Michael before she could storm from the room. Suddenly his eyes had never looked so cold.

"Whose to say you won't do the same to me and Franklin?" she inquired.

"I don't have time for it. Patience either. I'm not that guy anymore. I'm tired of running. I'm trying real hard just to be fucking retired again."

She looked at Franklin and let out a deep sigh.

"So where's Trevor now?"

"The last I saw him, he had his tail tucked and was running away in North Yankton right before I got kidnapped by his Asian pals. If he thinks anything of me, he probably thinks I'm dead."

"Playing dead is probably what's best for you right now," she hissed, biting her tongue to hold back the feel of deceit creeping on her bones.

"Come on, Mel. Don't count me out. I still have things to do. We've still gotta pull off the Union Depository. No matter you part, big or small, I'll make sure you get a cut. I owe you that much," Michael insisted.

"Honestly, Mike? I think a score should be last thing on your mind right now," she told him.

"She's right. If Trevor finds out you're still alive, man, who knows what he'll do. It's not like we could pull off the UD without him anyway. You gotta watch your back," Franklin said.

"Don't worry about Trevor. He's not getting anywhere near me. You watch your back," Michael ordered. "Both of you."

"It ain't us he's coming for. We straight. It's you, dog," Franklin declared. Melanie resumed picking and prodding at Michael's injuries. She cracked an ice pack over her knees and pressed it against the bruise on his shoulder.

"I'll keep an eye on Trevor, if that comforts you any."

And now Trevor's apprehensiveness toward Michael made sense. She thought of the tattoo she had seen on his arm.

"How'd it all go down?" she asked. She peeled a bandage across the cut in his nose as he took a sip from his glass.

"It's a long story."

"Summarize it then," she curtly added. He visibly winced as she applied pressure to the bruise.

"Alright. Cool it. Fine. I walked them into an ambush. Except..."

She leaned forward, waiting.

"Trevor was supposed to be the one killed, not his friend, Brad."

Again, she took a step back from the man. A hand clapsed to her forehead as she resisted every urge in her body to explode.

"You care about him, I know. Hell, I do too. Don't take it personally, but you don't know him like I do. You're making out with only a fraction of him; a facade. He's fucking deranged. He would've gotten us all killed later on down the line. But look. It didn't go down like that. He's still alive and I can't undo my past," Michael explained. She leaned against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes focused on the floor.

"You are OUT, kid," Michael said and she finally looked at his bloodied face. "Cherish it. Spend your money wisely. Forgive and forget your enemies. Make better friends than I have."

"Yeah, fuck you too, M," Franklin muttered.

"You know what I mean."

She reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured herself another shot.

"So what's your next move?" Franklin asked. Melanie plopped down on a stool and poured another two shots for herself.

"I've got to have a chat with Davey and see if we can work something out. After that, I want my family back," he claimed in a confident tone.

"What about the divorce?" Melanie piped up.

"The paper's never came," Michael noted.

"Shit. Then all's you gotta do is stay away from Trevor and you're straight," Franklin explained. Michael nodded and shifted the ice pack from the bruise his arm to the one on his forehead.

"Don't you wanna slow down?" he asked as Melanie downed another drink.

"This is my last one and I'm done," she declared. The warm, watery warmth of the whiskey was beginning to lull the questions and emotions quelling in her chest. Something inside of her wanted to get far away from Michael and never look back, but another part of her had an infinite amount of thanks to bid him for the hundreds of thousands of money sitting in her bank account. And if they pulled off The Big One, it could even be _millions._

"I'll keep an eye on Trev for you. Hopefully things will cool down soon," she said, rising to her feet. She staggered a little and Franklin gripped her shoulder.

"Want me to drive you home?"

"Much appreciated, Frankie," she obliged with a gentle pat on his cheek. She pointed a finger in Michael's direction.

"Be careful."

"Whatever you say, Mel," he quietly said over his glass. She gathered her belongings and followed Franklin toward the door.

"I'm so over all of this!" she shouted once they were outside. Her voice echoed down the hill and around the bend.

"I'm just as tired of it as you are, Mel. Get in," Franklin ordered as he opened the passenger door for her. She lowered herself into the seat with a harrumph. Franklin took the driver's seat and turned to her.

"You sure you wanna be alone tonight?"

"Are you hitting on me, Mr. Clinton?"

"Shut your drunk ass up," he swore. "I meant, with everything going on with Michael and Trevor. What if T is still all keyed up and I take you home and something happens to you?"

She relaxed her head against the headrest.

"Do you really feel that comfortable around him?" Franklin pressured. "If some shit went down, I wouldn't forgive myself for leaving you there. There's a lot of shit in the air right now."

"Okay," she finally let out, her eyes popping open again. "Party at the bachelor pad."

"No, no parties, fool. You're going to bed."

He reversed out of the driveway and started north for his house tucked away in Vinewood Hills.

"I'm not tired."

"I don't care."

"Do you think Trevor and Michael will be able to forgive each other?" she interjected.

"They have no choice. It's like me and Lamar. The nigga gets on my nerves and I always end up saving him from the stupidest situations, but that's still my nigga," he explained. "I like to think everybody has at least one friend like that. Somebody to keep 'em grounded."

"You're so positive, Frankie. Never change."

"Yeah. I'm trying."

A few minutes later, he pulled the Dominator into the garage outside his house. Melanie was quietly snoring away in the passenger seat.

"I thought you wasn't tired?" he nudged her. She smacked her lips.

"Okay, I lied. Sue me. At least I'm not as big a liar as Michael," she griped.

"Ain't that the truth?" he mumbled. He let them into his dim home.

"Here," he popped open a closet and thrust a throw blanket into her arms.

"You got the couch. Remote is on the table, but try not to fall asleep with the TV on. It'll make Chop bark all night."

She kicked her boots off at the front door as he locked up the place and typed in a security code.

"Night, Mel," he called before disappearing down the stairs.

"Night," she muttered. She stood in the dim foyer for a moment before padding into the living room and collapsing on the thick couch. As much as she wanted to turn on the TV and relax, her eyelids wouldn't open again. It was the first time in a long time she had been able to immediately succumb to sleep without her medication.


	33. The Not-So Girl Next Door

_A little rough because it's been a while, but we will get there. I promise!_

* * *

The door to Melanie's house was already unlocked when she turned the knob. The door swung right open. She groaned and stepped inside.

"Trevor!" she called. She gave the bridge of her nose a good squeeze as her own booming voice drove a knife right through her hangover headache. "Trev!"

Just as she turned to close and lock the front door, a boot was shoved in the doorjamb. She jumped.

"Looking for me?" he asked, poking his head inside.

"You scared the shit out of me. Why did you leave my door open?"

"Figured you got lost and it'd help you wander back. Where ya been? Ain't seen you since yesterday morn."

"Out with Franklin," she answered. She began to unbutton her uniform shirt. She gave the tanktop underneath a sniff and shrugged before tossing the shirt in the dryer tucked in the corner of the kitchen. Trevor shut and locked the door behind him and Melanie caught sight of the matte black sniper rifle perched on his right shoulder.

"What are you doing with that?" she asked, not even remotely surprised.

"Preparing," he answered in a monotonous tone. "What were you doin' with Franklin?"

"Car stuff," she answered almost too quickly. Trevor raised an eyebrow then plopped down at the dining room table. He laid the weapon across the tabletop and whipped a cleaning kit out of the pocket of his cargo pants.

"Are we keepin' secrets?" he grumbled. Melanie unbuttoned her pants and let the wrinkled fabric fall to her ankles. Trevor shot her a long look before trying to focus back on cleaning his gun. Melanie smirked and leaned over to toy with the buttons of the dryer.

"No. No secrets," she responded. If Trevor was to find out Michael was still alive, he didn't need to find out while a high-powered sniper rifle with an attached scope was in his grasp. On the other hand, if he didn't care to explain his need for the weapon, she didn't need to explain anything on her end either.

"You know... I ain't fond of hidden truths or half-lies," he claimed. He pushed away from the table and slowly approached the woman at the dryer. She turned the knob onto the 'Steam' setting and turned to face him.

"So you wanna tell me where you've been?" he questioned. His hot breath tickled her forehead as she turned her face up to look at the burly man in front of her.

"I told you. I was with Frank," she insisted. "You wanna explain the gun now?"

"Hunting snakes," he curtly responded, amber eyes boring into hers. Her gaze flickered away and she slid away from the narrow space separating him from the warm dryer. If he was hunting snakes with an entire rifle then something was definitely up and there was too much smoke in the air for her to even try to figure out which jig would be up first. Did he know the Bureau wanted him dead by Franklin's hand? Would they get to him or would he quiet them first? Was that what the gun was for? Or was it for Michael? After hearing the story of what had happened between the men a decade ago, it made sense for him to carry a bit of a grudge.

"Wanna take a shower with me?" she spoke up. He reclaimed his seat at the table in front of his gun.

"Later," he grumbled. He knew. She nibbled her bottom lip as she stood in the middle of the hall. She listened to the sounds of him disassembling the weapon before she stepped into the bathroom and locked the door. He knew something. An anxiety began to tug at her nerves. He felt so familiar, but now, things were tense. He had left her front door open like some hunter trying to trap something with a simple box. Had he been watching her from afar, waiting for her to get home? Did he see her leave Michael's? What about Franklin's? Was he playing dumb?

She recalled the way his eyes dug into her in the kitchen. His high was finally starting to fade away, but how long would it be until he was in the clouds again, especially considering the events that recently unfolded between him and his best friend in North Yankton? The way he had read her body language the other night and held her face, forcing her to face him and speak. The venom in his voice. She shuddered and quickly turned on the shower. Michael's words bounced around her head as she stood under the steady stream of warm water. _You're only making out with a fraction of him, a facade. You are OUT, kid. Cherish it. Spend your money wisely. Make better friends._

"Fuck," she whispered, running a wet hand over her face. She thought about Carter. There was still room for plenty of making up. And Packie. He meant well, better than most...

The front door to her apartment slammed shut, shaking the small building. She shut off the shower, wrapped a towel around her frame, and made her way down the hall. The table was barren and Trevor was gone. The sputter of his truck's engine faded as he drove off somewhere. She shook her head. Screw it. Like Michael, Haines, and Norton had told her. She was out. She needed to make better choices and worry about her.

Melanie picked her phone up from the counter and clicked around a bit. Her eyes skittered over her bank account balance again. She shot Trevor's old duffel perched on the couch a sideways glance then pulled up Packie's contact information to make a phone call.

"Hullo?" his groggy voice answered after a few rings.

"Hey Packie. What're you doing?"

"Uh, sleeping? I thought you'd be doing the same," he said with a yawn. She could go for a few hours, but she had yet to take any medication and a newfound excitement was creeping on her shoulders.

"Where do you live?" she asked, crossing her bare legs and tilting the chair back a little.

"Vespucci Canals. Why?"

"Any real estate open over there? Anything for lease or sale?"

"I think there are a few more condos for rent overlooking some docks. Why?"

"I'm looking to move," her eyes scanned over her apartment. "You know, start over."

* * *

"If I had known this was how you wanted to spend our day off, I would have went a little lighter on the drinks last night," Packie complained. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose as the landlord marched them up the third set of stairs they had climbed all day. The late afternoon sun was as strong as ever and seagulls complained overhead. The crash of the waves in the near distance was music to Melanie's ears. She couldn't wait to have another sit down on the beach.

"What exactly are you looking for? Do you have anything in particular in mind?" Mrs. Dolores asked over her shoulder.

"I...don't know," Melanie let out a deep breath and shrugged. "I mean, I've never exactly treated myself. I haven't even ever spent much time in this part of the city."

"Are you two new here?"

"I am," Packie spoke up over a sip of coffee. "She's just looking to relocate."

"You two aren't...?" she wiggled her fingers between the duo and pursed her thin lips.

"We work together," he added. She sent them an odd look and used a ring of keys to unlock another gate.

"These condos are some of my favorites. Minus the stray cats, this neighborhood is wonderful. Cross a couple side roads and you're right on the boardwalk. Either of you ever heard of Dr. Isiah Friedlander?"

Melanie slightly raised a hand.

"I see him too. Twice a week," Mrs. Dolores noted. "His office is in walking distance from here."

"I'm in walking distance from here," Packie piped up, nudging his friend in the side. "Corn dogs and sunset walks on the pier. I'm down."

"Sounds good to me," Melanie added. Packie raised an eyebrow and smirked. Mrs. Dolores unlocked the door to a condo on the second floor and gestured for them to step inside.

"Two bedroom, one and a half bath. New carpetting was just put down in the bedrooms and tiled linoleum in the bathroom. The rest is hardwood-"

"How much is it?" Melanie interrupted. She meandered over to a glass door that gave way to a small patio overlooking the west of the canals.

"Eight hundred a month, but that doesn't include-"

"How much to buy it?"

Packie pivoted on the heel of his tennis shoe and shot his partner a peculiar look from behind the island counters of the open kitchen. Melanie turned around to face the quiet landlord.

"Ninety-eight thousand, but again, that isn't including the parking tag registration and grounds upkeep."

"Where do I sign?" Melanie chirped with a sharp grin. Mrs. Dolores went stone-faced before flipping through her clipboard.

"Sign here to give me permission to run a background and credit check," she claimed. "After that, I'll contact you within twenty-fours hours about the availability and when you can start moving in your belongings. Is there anyone you'd like to co-sign the contract? In case you miss a payment or need help?"

"I won't need help," Melanie continued with a sweet smile. "Can my partner and I get a few minutes alone to look at the place before I sign anything?"

"...sure," Mrs. Dolores let out. She looked to Packie then back to Melanie before disappearing outside. Packie uncrossed his arms and began to toy with the appliances.

"Either I have shitty money management skills or you've just been saving for a while or you're selling drugs on the down low," he said then laughed. "Either way, I can't believe you're buying a condo right here, right now."

"I need a change of scenery," she said with a shrug. She started down the neat hallway, opening doors and cabinets.

"I'm staying in a one-bedroom apartment on the edge of the borough. Are you sure we're cashing the same paychecks?" he pressed on. He was marveled. Melanie stopped in front of a floor to ceiling window at the end of the hall before turning to him.

"You heard her. This place has two bedrooms. Move in with me," she nonchalantly suggested. He scoffed and scratched at his dark hair. His bright eyes caught hers before he shook his head and redirected his attention out of the window.

"I don't want to be the third wheel between you and your boyfriend. You said you needed a change of scenery. I can't be the catalyst in any drama. I couldn't, Mel," he explained.

"Getting away from my boyfriend is the change of scenery," she sighed. Packie frowned.

"Trouble in paradise?"

"I don't know," she huffed. "It's a long story."

"Miss Cutlass?"

The two turned around to see Mrs. Dolores at the head of the hall with papers in hand.

"I'll take it," Melanie said with a smile.


End file.
